Into the East
by Sisiutil
Summary: A mysterious stranger comes to Hobbiton, intent on finding the remaining companions of the RingBearer. A LoTR fic featuring Merry, Pippin, Sam, Legolas, Gimli, and some original characters. COMPLETE.
1. The Green Dragon

**Into the East**

_A Lord of the Rings fanfic by Sisiutil_

* * *

**Foreword**

This story was inspired by a desire--shared by, I have no doubt, many Tolkien/Jackson fans--to see more of the characters and settings depicted in the _Lord of the Rings_ books and movies that have captured the imaginations of so many people. I have striven to craft an adventure that fits into the continuity of these works, and that allows its readers to revisit many of the people and places of which we are all so fond.

Specifically, this story takes place shortly after the end of both the book and movie trilogies. Frodo, Gandalf, Elrond, Galadriel, and nearly all the Elves have departed for The Undying Lands. So they, unfortunately, will not be featured in this story--except, perhaps, in flashback. But many other beloved characters from the trilogy will appear, or at least be referred to.

I was torn as well between following the continuity of the movies versus that of the books, as they diverge in several places. Since my story occurs after the events of the books and movies, rather than being concurrent with them, I have tried to minimize references to such discrepancies so they will not prove distracting. Nevertheless, at times this was unavoidable. I decided to attempt to stick to the continuity of the movies for various reasons, but I have delved into the lore contained in the books where required details were understandably lacking in the films. I realize this may immediately alienate fervent fans of the books, but at least I am warning you up front.

In addition, I should point out that I am merely a fan and nowhere near being a Tolkien scholar, so there are bound to be places where this narrative strays from the canon. I may have done this a few times because I felt the story was better served by it; mostly and inevitably, however, these inconsistencies are unintentional. I hope they are minor and do not distract from the story. As Tolkien himself wrote: "The prime motive was the desire of a tale-teller to try his hand at a really long story that would hold the attention of readers, amuse them, delight them, and at times maybe excite them or deeply move them." This story is not nearly as long has his, but nevertheless, such is the aim, surely, of all story-tellers. If I can achieve some of Tolkien's goals for some of you who so generously devote your time to reading this story, I would find myself both humbled and honoured.

* * *

**Prologue: The Dark Rider**

From the northeast he came, riding a horse as dark as the night that surrounded him and his steed. His cloak and hood were similarly dark, as was his mood. He did not pause or rest more than was absolutely necessary, though the trip was long and the first part of his route wound through the high passes of the Misty Mountains. The horse sensed his rider's determination and offered no resistance on the long ride, even though his master urged him to the limits of his endurance.

Down from the mountains he rode, beneath dappled sunlight through the forests of Rhudaur. The scenic greenery gave him little comfort, and he took no note of it. His horse galloped along the Great East Road through night and day. When heavy rain stung his face and soaked his long, black hooded cloak, he did not feel the chill. Greater concerns than mere physical discomfort weighed upon his mind. A leather scabbard containing a heavy broadsword slapped against his thigh as the horse galloped, its familiar weight a comfort, even a solace. It had tasted blood many times before, and would soon again. Or so he fervently hoped.

After one more brief rest, rider and horse continued their journey. He was not completely devoid of mercy; sensing the beast's weariness, and knowing he was close to his destination, he allowed his steed's pace to slow to a trot. By nightfall, he knew, he would reach his goal. He would be in the heart of Eriador, in the green and pleasant land commonly known amongst its inhabitants as The Shire. And there he would find those he sought.

There he would find the Hobbits.

* * *

**Chapter 1: The Green Dragon**

"You can't be serious!" Peregrin Took, better known to his friends as Pippin, exclaimed.

"I am," Meriadoc Brandybuck, more commonly known as Merry, said calmly.

The Hobbit picked up his mug and raised it to his lips, taking several healthy gulps of the cool, tasty ale. His casual calmness seemed to underscore his point, but Pippin stared at him, wide-eyed and unconvinced. Samwise Gamgee sat silently at their table, holding his own mug by the handle, but did not drink from it. In fact, Sam made every effort, quite suddenly, to be as still as possible.

The three Hobbits--all old friends--were sitting in their favourite public house, The Green Dragon. Around them swirled the usual hubbub of Hobbit merriment and activity after a long day's work minding the crops and livestock. It was early autumn, and the harvest was at hand. There was much to do before the long nights and indolent days of winter set in. The hard work, though, meant that the many Hobbits gathered in the pub possessed thirst and hunger in even greater measure than usual, and that was saying something indeed. Laughter and voices filled the air of the pub, as did the pleasantly pungent scent of tobacco smoke from several pipes, and the warm smell of rich, bubbly ale. In one corner, a fiddler played, and several nearby Hobbits sang a merry song to accompany the musician's jaunty tune.

"This is madness!" Pippin said once Merry's mug returned with a soft thump to the wooden tabletop. He shook his head to emphasize his words, his brown curly locks shaking vigorously on his head.

"Sam doesn't think so," Merry said in response.

Pippin turned to Sam, his usually soft and gentle features folding into a suspicious frown.

"Please leave me out of this," Sam begged, his hands raised.

"Oh, no," Pippin chastised him. He raised one hand and pointed an accusing finger at Sam. "This has your handwriting all over it, Samwise Gamgee. I know it sure as I know a garden you've tended."

"Leave off, Pippin," Merry said. "Give me a little credit for having a mind of my own."

"I will not," Pippin said, a little churlishly, and Merry stared at him, his face expressing both his surprise and his annoyance. "You're easily led." It was now Pippin's turn to lift his mug of ale to his lips and take several swigs.

Merry's mouth dropped open in astonishment. "_I'M _easily led?" he exclaimed. He turned to Sam, who still appeared reluctant to get involved in the conversation. "Did you hear that? Did you hear _HIM?_" He pointed accusingly at Pippin while looking at Sam. Merry then shook his head of curly, dark blond hair and gave a cry of disgust and protest. "Might I remind you that it was _your _idea to follow Frodo to Rivendale, and then to join the Fellowship?"

"I recall...that those were mutual, and _spon-ta-ne-ous_, decisions...on both our parts," Pippin proclaimed, setting his mug down and carefully elucidating each word in the custom of someone who has imbibed possibly a little too much ale. "And the dangers we faced then...were as nothing compared to what you are proposing now. It is a most..._perilous_ undertaking," he concluded, then punctuated his remark with a belch.

"Perilous?" Merry said. "Courtship and marriage? Perilous? Tell me, Sam," Merry said, turning to the only married Hobbit at the table, "what took more courage: strolling into Mount Doom, or asking Rosie for that first dance?"

Sam's discomfort at being drawn back into the conversation gradually vanished as his brow furrowed in consideration of the question. "Well, come to think of it," he said earnestly after a moment's thought, "both were rather daunting, but in very different..."

"And what's the point of even discussing the possibility?" Pippin asked rhetorically as though Sam hadn't uttered a word. "It's not like you're going to find anyone to put up with you anytime soon," he said pointedly, and rather uncharitably, to Merry.

Rather than responding with an angry rejoinder as Pippin expected, however, Merry seemed to bite back a response. His eyes dropped as if the bottom of his mug of ale held something worthy of serious study. For his part, Sam looked away, suddenly taking an interest in the fiddler and singers in the far corner of the pub.

"What?" Pippin asked, smiling uncertainly as he looked at each of his friends in turn. "Oh, come on, there's no possible..."

"Her name's Estella," Merry muttered, glancing up from his mug to return Pippin's suddenly shocked look. "She's a Bolger, and a distant cousin of Rosie's. She's...quite nice, actually."

"Huh," Pippin said, quite taken aback. His prodigious consumption of ale that evening did not help his thought processes. He considered this new, unexpected information, then glanced at Sam. "Rosie's cousin, eh? I _knew _this was _your_ doing!"

"What! Now, Pippin," Sam began to say soothingly.

"No, don't you 'Now, Pippin' me!" the Hobbit declared. He raised his mug to his lips and determinedly drained it, then set it down on the table top loudly. "I see now. Here I thought this was a sort of...theor...theorek..._abstract_ discussion, such as between... gentlemen philosophers," he said as he rose unsteadily to his feet. "But now I see," he went on, pointing an accusatory, if wavering, finger at his two friends in turn. "It's true what they say: 'Misery loves company'. And you two poor married...soon to be married, in your case, I'm sure, Merry...heh...marry, Merry..."

"Pippin," Merry said, waving for Pippin to resume his seat.

"No sir!" Pippin said, his voice raised and his eyes slightly glazed. Other Hobbits at nearby tables began to look his way, many with amusement. If Pippin was tying one on again, entertainment was guaranteed. "You'll not hoodwink this Hobbit! A determined bashel...bachel..._single_ Hobbit I am, and a single Hobbit I will remain to the DAY. I. DIE," he said, emphasizing each of the last three words with a loud poke of his forefinger into the tabletop. He began to back away, very unsteadily, from the table. "There's a world of...of..._adventure_ out there!" he said, pointing to the pub's door behind him.

The door, at that very moment, opened. Sam and Merry, and several other Hobbits, stared past Pippin at it.

"...and this is _one_ Hobbit... whose _adventures_... are not yet _done_!" Pippin declared as his pointing hand dropped to his side, slapping his thigh loudly.

The pub suddenly grew quiet as a tall figure in a long, dark cloak and hood entered the pub, stooping at first, then raising to his full height so his head just brushed against the inside of the thatched roof. The fiddler and singers stopped their music-making quite suddenly and stared at the interloper.

"Yes! That's right!" Pippin said, assuming the bar had quieted to listen to him. "I...am an _adventurer_!" he announced, a very un-Hobbit-like declaration, which only seemed to make Pippin more pleased with it. "And I am off to fearlessly seek _adventure_! And the rest of you can get stuffed. Or married. Same difference..." he concluded, waving his hand at Sam and Merry dismissively.

With that, Pippin turned and took one determined if unsteady step towards the door. He found his way blocked by a set of very large and muscular legs clad in dark breeches. His head tilted back suddenly as he stared up at the tall man who had just entered The Green Dragon. At least he seemed to be a man, but the heavy dark hood of his long cloak concealed his features, as did the lack of light near the roof of the establishment. All at once, Pippin was reminded of the Nazgûl. His eyes went wide, a surprised shriek escaped his lips, and the would-be adventurer fell backwards, landing unceremoniously on his rump with a soft _thud_.

The dark-shrouded figure seemed to study him for a moment. Then an arm emerged from beneath the cloak, clad in a heavy, dark leather glove. The stranger's hand reached up and pulled back the hood of his cloak.

In the gloom near the pub's roof, the assembled crowd, now silent to a Hobbit, could just discern the man's features, for they could see he was, indeed, a man. He had long black hair which was tied back at the nape of his neck. His brows, which were furrowed into a heavy frown, were heavy and dark, each one arched like a bent tree branch. From beneath them blazed two fierce eyes of cobalt blue, set between a long, straight nose. A closely-trimmed beard, as dark as the hair on his head, covered the lower half of the man's face. His lips were thick but pale, pressed together in grim determination. His expression seemed weary, yet also energized, as if by some sort of obsession...or madness.

Nearly all the Hobbits in the pub instinctively shrank back from the tall stranger. The "Big Folk", as the Hobbits called them, rarely bothered entering the Shire, and that was the way the Hobbits preferred things. When he encountered a man, a Hobbit's first instinct was to hide--in fact, as a race, they had grown quite adept at that ability. It was not simply out of fear, but principally from a wish to simply be left alone and unharmed by bigger, clumsier creatures. The Hobbits in the pub could not hide in plain sight of this formidable-looking man, but neither could they fight their impulse to avoid his steely gaze, which did not waver from Pippin's small, supine form.

Only two Hobbits in the pub did not shrink from the stranger's view. Merry and Sam pushed back their chairs and rose, wary but determined to discover this man's purpose in the Shire and especially in their beloved pub. The two Hobbits strode forward until they stood on either side of Pippin, who pushed himself back up to his feet and stood, suddenly sober, with his companions. The three Hobbits had faced Orcs, Ring-Wraiths, trolls, Mûmakil, giant spiders, the Black Gate of Mordor, the fires of Mount Doom, and the evil lord Sauron himself; no mere _man_ was going to intimidate them. Even if he was twice their height.

"What business do you have in the Shire?" Merry asked the man, drawing and meeting the man's gaze unflinchingly.

For a long, tense moment, the man did not answer; his eyes narrowed and he returned Merry's determined stare. Then he nodded once, a barely perceptible motion, as if satisfied in his silent assessment.

"I seek four halflings," the man said, his voice low and rumbling, its timbre raw with weariness, but also with determination. Or was it menace? The Hobbits weren't sure. "I seek the Ring-Bearer, and his companions."

Merry, Pippin, and Sam exchange silent but meaningful glances. Then they looked back up at the stranger. There was nothing for it but to tell the truth.

"Mister Frodo...the Ring-Bearer...is gone," Sam said, the crack in his voice barely audible. Merry and Pippin glanced at him supportively, then back at the man who had unwittingly reopened a very fresh wound. The man blinked, then his frown deepened as he glared at Sam, clearly expecting further explanation. The stocky Hobbit pressed his lips together for a moment, then went on. "He left with Gandalf, the White Wizard, and the Elves for the Undying Lands, not more than a year ago."

The man blinked again, then his eyes glanced at the other Hobbits in the public house suspiciously.

"We were his companions on his quest," Pippin said quietly.

"We are the Hobbits you seek," Merry continued. "What is your business with us?" His hand moved to his hip, where he used to wear his Elven dagger, a gift from the Lady Galadriel. But he silently cursed when he remembered that the weapon was not there; it had dissolved after being thrust into the Witch King's thigh that fateful day upon the Fields of Pelennor. Elrond of Rivendell had bestowed upon him a replacement, but it was hanging above the mantle in his hobbit-hole, as was Pippin's in his home, both weapons relegated to conversation pieces and mementos of adventurous days they had all assumed were now well in the past.

The stranger, however, was not unarmed. Glancing beneath the man's dark cloak from his low vantage point, Merry could see that one of the stranger's gloved hands clasped the hilt of a broadsword. A dagger, the same size as those the Hobbits once wielded as swords, hung from his thick leather belt. Merry, Pippin, and Sam ignored the sudden churning in their bellies and stood their ground, unarmed though they were.

The dark-haired man, his eyes narrowed, studied each of the three hobbits in turn. A tense, oppressive silence hung in the room. The tall man's next action, however, shocked everyone there. To the Hobbits' collective astonishment, the man dropped suddenly to one knee and bowed his head reverently, his gaze dropping to the floor. His broad shoulders suddenly sagged, as if under some great weight.

"Companions of the Ring-Bearer," he said, his voice subdued with fatigue but also with respect, "I have come to seek your aid."

* * *


	2. The Ranger's tale

**Into the East**

_A Lord of the Rings fanfic by Sisiutil_

* * *

**Chapter 2: The Ranger's Tale**

"I am Evandor, son of Ethanor," the black-haired and dark-cloaked stranger said as he sat down. As no chairs in the public house would properly accommodate a man, especially one as tall as this, a second, sturdy table had been pulled nearer to that of the three Hobbits to whom he spoke, and he sat upon that. "I am a Ranger of the north."

"A Ranger?" Merry said, his eyebrows raising in mild surprise.

"Yes," Evandor said flatly.

His voice was low and quiet for such a large man; he seemed to deliberately choose a volume no louder than what was required for the three hobbits to hear him. Even so, they leaned forward to better attend his words through the din of the public house. The other patrons of the Green Dragon had done their best to go back to their drinks and merriment, but remained distracted by the oversized stranger in their midst. Conversations throughout the establishment inevitably swirled around suppositions as to the stranger's purpose and his interest in the three young hobbits. Few of the other bar patrons were surprised that of all the inhabitants of the Shire, an outsider should seek out these three particular residents. Merry, Pippin, Sam, and the now-departed Frodo had, like Bilbo Baggins before them, unintentionally acquired a rather scandalous reputation amongst other Shirefolk. They had, after all, embarked on an _adventure_--a very un-hobbitlike undertaking. And now here was another of the troublesome, clumsy "big folk", who would probably take the three foolish hobbits off on some other wild escapade. "No good will come of it," muttered several hobbits at other tables in the pub.

As for Merry, Pippin, and Sam, they had been relieved of some of the tension they felt when the stranger first entered the pub and spoke to them, but only a little. Though the man said he had come to seek their assistance, he was still a stranger to them, and a well-armed one at that. And in spite of their experiences during the Great War of the Ring, their innate hobbit distrust of the big folk was not cast off easily. Nevertheless, they felt obliged to hear the man out, as much out of curiosity as courtesy. Even after their service in the war and the accolades they had received, they, like all hobbits, were humble, unassuming folk, and could not help but wonder why so evidently formidable a man would require their assistance.

"I am one of the few remaining Dúnedain," Evandor continued. "You are familiar with us, are you not? Particularly with one of our number...Strider, also known as Aragorn, though he is now called King Elessar of Gondor."

"You know Aragorn?" Sam asked, his fair brows rising at the mention of his noble, one-time companion's name.

"Of course," Evandor said. "Though I would not claim his friendship, for we Rangers are, by nature and circumstance, dispersed and solitary. Still, he is nonetheless a comrade and kinsman, though distantly related. I stood with him before the black gate of Mordor at the end of the War of the Ring."

"As did we," Merry said sharply, his brow furrowing with suspicion. "But I don't remember you."

One of Evandor's thick brows rose, and his cold, pale blue eyes studied the blond-haired hobbit. "Nor should you," he said pointedly. "Though I was among the mere thirty Rangers who came with Halbarad Dúnedan to the battle of the Pelennor, I was but one among many thousands of warriors at that battle and at the one before the black gates that followed. But I assure you, I was there that day, and remember it well... the army of orcs and trolls that emerged from the gate and surrounded us, the sense of almost certain death that pervaded our host, then the relief and elation when the one ring was destroyed and the dark tower fell."

The Ranger's reminiscences, seemingly authentic, were interrupted by the arrival of a young female hobbit, visibly nervous, carrying a tray of drinks for the three hobbits and one man. She set the tray down upon the table, then hurried away to what safety the other side of the pub's long wooden bar seemed to offer.

"All right," Merry said, "so you're a Ranger, an... _acquaintance_ of our friend Aragorn, and a veteran of the war. If so, you must be a most formidable man in your own right. Why do you come seeking _our_ aid?"

Rather than answering Merry's question immediately, however, Evandor stared at the tiny mugs upon the tray that had been placed upon the table and frowned. His throat was parched from his long ride, but these tiny cups held little promise of slaking his thirst. In the middle of the tray, however, was a much larger mug, filled to the brim with ale. He eagerly reached for it, grasped its handle, lifted it to his lips, and drank.

After draining nearly half of its contents, Evandor lowered the mug from his lips and was about to answer Merry's question when he noticed the three hobbits staring at him with no small amount of astonishment, and annoyance as well. Evandor paused and glanced at his new companions, his expression suddenly uncertain.

"What?" he asked, glancing at each of the hobbits in turn.

"Er, that's our pitcher of ale you're drinking from," Pippin informed him.

Evandor glanced at the mug he still held in his hand and noticed for the first time that it did, indeed, have a spout upon its rim, on the side opposite the handle. "Oh. Sorry," he said, then after a moment's hesitation, moved as if to pour the rest of the pitcher's contents into the Hobbits' empty mugs.

"That's all right, Mister Evandor!" Sam interjected before their mugs could be filled with any of the ale and the man's backwash. "We'll order more," he said, beckoning to the reluctant serving girl.

"It was a long..._dry_ ride," Evandor muttered, somewhat chagrined.

"I should imagine," Sam said politely. "Though as my friend said, coming all this way to the Shire just to ask _our_ help seems a little, well, _odd_, sir."

Evandor grunted softly, whatever mild discomfort he had experienced dissipating as he remembered his purpose in coming to this place and seeking out these humble hobbits.

"Your modesty is most genteel, Sam Gamgee, but belies your reputation," the Ranger said. "The people of Middle-Earth owe their freedom, nay, their continued existence, to you halflings. Did not you yourself brave the parched lands of Mordor and the fires of Mount Doom to assist the Ring-Bearer in his quest to destroy the weapon of the great enemy? And I saw you two," he said, indicating Merry and Pippin, "stand and fight at the black gate. I know well your capacity for great and brave deeds." The hobbits could not help but draw themselves up at the man's courteous and flattering words. Each of them had, indeed, played an important role in the great war; fortunately, their innate hobbit humility prevented the import of their deeds from disproportionately swelling their heads. Nevertheless, like all creatures, they had some pride, and Evandor's words played to it. "It is to your bravery and fortitude that I have come to appeal," Evandor went on. "Middle-Earth has enjoyed relative peace since the fall of Mordor. But not all of the dark lord's forces were destroyed."

"The orcs," Merry said knowingly, and with no small amount of distaste.

Word came to the Shire periodically of the continued efforts to eradicate the vile creatures from Middle-Earth. The three hobbits knew that the men of Gondor and Rohan continued to hunt the dispersed remnants of Sauron's army, as did their former companions of the Fellowship of the Ring, Legolas the Elf and Gimli the Dwarf. Every now and then a letter from Legolas or Gimli arrived upon one of their doorsteps, detailing the two unlikely friends' latest adventures--and the score in their on-going, never-ending Orc-killing competition. The hobbits firmly believed that Legolas, unlike his fellow elves, was purposely delaying his departure from Middle-Earth for the undying lands until all the remaining orcs had been killed and his game with Gimli was settled once and for all.

"Indeed," Evandor agreed. His voice hardened, reflecting a deeper-seated feeling than even Merry's distaste at the thought of orcs. He leaned forward, his cobalt eyes blazing with urgency. He lowered his voice, intending his words to only be heard by the three hobbits at the table. "And now, in the east, a new threat rises. One Prince Dredmor of Dol Guldur, or so he calls himself, gathers orcs and the dregs of humanity to the former stronghold of the Dark Lord deep within Mirkwood Forest. He intends to build an army with which he will strike out and conquer the kingdoms of Middle-Earth."

Sam, Merry, and Pippin were taken aback by this news, though it was not a complete surprise to them. From all that they had heard, the orcs remained dispersed, little more than bands of brigands that caused mischief and needed to be hunted down. Sadly, they silently acknowledged the inevitability of some malevolent leader bringing Sauron's dark forces together to threaten the fragile peace Middle-Earth now enjoyed. The more things changed, it seemed, the more they remained the same.

Nevertheless, one detail of the stranger's news did not sit will with Merry. "Dol Guldur?" he said, his brows furrowing as he eyed Evandor with suspicion. "We understood that the elves of Lothlórien, led by the Lady Galadriel, destroyed Dol Guldur after the war."

"They did their best," Evandor acknowledged. "Yet the foundations and many of the walls of the fortress remained atop Amon Lanc. Though the Galadrhim considered the place unusable, Dredmor has been rebuilding the stronghold. As he gathers more orcs and men to his cause, the faster the building goes; and the higher the walls of the restored Dol Guldur rise, the more of Sauron's dispersed allies he attracts. A vicious cycle, and a most worrisome one, I'm sure you'll agree."

Still, Merry's suspicions were not completely allayed. He could not fathom how he and his companions could help deal with this supposed danger to Middle-Earth, especially when so many other much more capable leaders and warriors were nearer to it than they. "Surely Aragorn knows of this new threat," he said.

"Of course he does," Evandor agreed. "But it is, as you say, a new threat, and not a serious one. _Yet_," he added ominously.

"How can _we_ help?" Sam asked. It was more an expression of his puzzlement than an offer of assistance. "Beggin' your pardon, sir, but shouldn't you be goin' to Aragorn? or Éomer? Gather an expeditionary force or such like, and nip the problem in the bud, as it were."

"King Elessar and Queen Arwen preoccupy themselves with rebuilding their ravaged kingdom, as does King Éomer in Rohan. As they rightly should," Evandor explained. "And their people are weary of war. It is unlikely either would move against an enemy unless attacked first. Dredmor, however, _can_ be defeated, quickly and effectively--not by force of arms, but by cunning and stealth. Which is why I have come to you, for if your reputation is to be believed, you possess those qualities in abundance."

Pippin smiled, the ale in his belly overcoming any trepidation he might have felt. Evandor's flattery was not hurting his cause, at least with Pippin; Merry and Sam, however, still eyed the stranger with some suspicion. "You have a plan," Pippin said, a conspiratorial smile on his ale-moistened lips.

"Indeed I do," Evandor said, quite serious. "Prince Dredmor has one chief asset. What he does not realize is that this great strength is also his great _weakness_. Take it from him, and the orcs and men he has gathered to his loathsome cause will leave his service, and his great plans will crumble to dust."

"What is this...'asset', as you call it?" Merry asked dubiously.

"Dredmor," Evandor said, "has, in his possession, one of the few remaining artefacts of Sauron." The Ranger paused for effect. "He has the Palantir of Minas Ithil."

There was silence at the table. The hobbits stared at Evandor in shock; then Merry and Sam, as one, turned their gaze upon Pippin, who continued to stare, wide-eyed, at the enigmatic Ranger. Pippin shuddered involuntarily as Evandor's words brought back a most unpleasant memory.

"You are acquainted with the seeing stone," Evandor said to Pippin, shrewdly perceiving the hobbit's averse reaction to the mere mention of the item.

"Not... that one," Pippin answered quietly, almost reluctantly. "I... held one once. The Palantir of Orthanc. It was during the war. The great eye...it saw me. Sauron's voice... filled my mind..." Pippin's voice faded away, and his gaze dropped to the table. Looking into the Palantiri had allowed Sauron to corrupt Saruman, wizard of Isengard, and Denethor, steward of Gondor. Pippin's brief exposure to the seeing stone had brought him into direct contact with the dread dark lord. He had nearly lost his soul in the process. The incident still, all this time later, haunted his thoughts, and some nights, his dreams as well.

"Then you know the stone's power," Evandor said to the suddenly silent little Hobbit, pressing his point. "It must not remain in the Prince's possession," he added fervently.

"But...," Merry interrupted, "...I thought that the Palantir of Minas Ithil was destroyed when the dark tower fell!"

"So legend has it," Evandor replied. "Who can be certain? The Palantiri were supposedly unbreakable. After Mordor fell, did anyone brave the dark lands to search through the debris of Barad-dûr and verify its destruction?" The Hobbits fell silent, realizing that Evandor was correct in his assertion. The Ranger sat back a little and shrugged. "All the same, whether the seeing stone in Dredmor's possession is genuine or not does not ultimately matter. The mere _belief _in its authenticity draws orcs and the worst class of men to Prince Dredmor as moths to a flame. They apparently believe that some remnant of Sauron remains intact within it." Pippin shuddered yet again in reaction to this idea. "It is my intention," Evandor continued, "to make my way into his kingdom, then his castle, by stealth; steal the Palantir, and with it, the Prince's ability to attract Sauron's forces to his cause."

As the hobbits silently considered this plan, Evandor quietly raised the nearly-empty pitcher of ale to his lips and drained it.

"Which," he then added as he set the pitcher down, "is where you come in, my new little friends."

* * *


	3. Departures and Misgivings

**Into the East**

_A Lord of the Rings fanfic by Sisiutil_

* * *

**Chapter 3: Departures and Misgivings**

The next day, Merry and Pippin both sat atop ponies, their old Elven travelling cloaks about their shoulders, saddlebags hanging on either side of the little horses' haunches and bulging with food--essential trappings for any hobbit on a journey, even the short jaunts favoured by most of their kind. They rode first to Sam Gamgee's hobbit-hole to bid their friend farewell, for the Ranger Evandor had unexpectedly, and in no uncertain terms, forbidden Sam from joining them on their journey.

The previous night in the pub, once the three hobbits had reluctantly agreed to assist the Ranger in his mission, Sam had shaken his head of curly blond hair ruefully.

"Rosie's not going to like this," he'd muttered quietly.

"Who is 'Rosie'?" the dark-featured Ranger had demanded of Sam sharply, leaning forward in an almost menacing fashion. Evandor, the hobbits were quickly learning, had ears nearly as sharp as an elf's, unpointed though they may be.

The stocky hobbit had sat bolt upright in reaction to being questioned in such a manner. "Rosie is my wife," he'd responded simply.

"You are _married_," Evandor had said flatly.

"That's what most people do, in order to get a wife," Merry had muttered.

"You have children?" Evandor had asked Sam sharply, ignoring Merry's sarcastic comment.

"Two thus far," Sam had replied, his pride in his family helping him recover some of his composure. "My eldest is a girl, and my son was born just over a year..."

"You will _not _be accompanying us on the journey," Evandor had said matter-of-factly. He'd then turned his intense gaze upon the other two hobbits. "Are either of _you_ married? Have _you_ any children?" Both Pippin and Merry shook their heads. Evandor had then appeared to relax a little, as though relieved. "Good."

"Now hang on just a moment," Sam had begun to say, but Evandor had quickly cut him off.

"You are a _husband_ and a _father_," he'd said pointedly. "Your first priority _is_ and _must be_ to your _family_. Your days of adventuring are _through_, Master Gamgee." Sam had opened his mouth to argue further, but Evandor had loudly slapped the flat of his palm down upon the table and leaned forward until he glowered down upon the hobbit. "My word on this is _final_," he'd growled at Sam. "Do we have an understanding?"

"But...my friends..." Sam had objected as he'd glanced forlornly at Merry and Pippin.

"Pale in importance next to your _family_," Evandor had insisted, more than a little harshly. He'd then taken a deep breath and had seemed to calm himself a little. "They will have one another. And me. It will have to be enough. Are we agreed?"

Despite the harshness of Evandor's tone, the hobbits had reluctantly agreed that he had a point. Sam did indeed have a duty and responsibility to care for his family; Pippin and Merry--despite the latter's courtship of Estella Bolger--were unattached and thus free to accompany the Ranger on his quest. So Sam had agreed to stay home in hobbiton.

Thus, that morning, Sam opened the brightly-painted yellow door of his hobbit-hole and came out to bid farewell to his two friends. There was, perhaps, no truer and stouter heart in all of Middle-Earth than the one that beat in the small but barrel-shaped chest of Samwise Gamgee. As much as he loved Rosie and the children, it pained him to think of his friends heading off into danger without himself along to accompany them, as he had just a few years before. His heart felt as though it would tear in two. He walked slowly, with a sad reluctance in his step, and his hands were held behind his back. Rosie and the children watched from a window inside.

"When do you think you'll be back?" Sam asked Merry and Pippin.

Merry shrugged, feigning more nonchalance than he felt. "In a couple of months, perhaps," he said, "if all goes well."

"Aye, if all goes well," Pippin echoed him dubiously. Ever since they had discussed the seeing stone the night before, Pippin's usually-cheerful mood had been decidedly subdued. Merry turned to look at him, his concern for his friend evident in his expression, but the blond-haired hobbit said nothing. His fingers instinctively touched the carved handle of the dagger he had taken from above his mantle and now had tucked into his belt, the souvenir called into service once again. Pippin wore his elvish dagger at his waist as well.

Sam watched his friend seeking silent solace from the weapon that Elrond had given him. "That reminds me," he said as if he'd just thought of it, "I have something else for you to bring along, if you've room in those overstuffed saddlebags that your poor ponies are carrying."

Merry and Pippin both gave him a puzzled look. "Not lembas bread," Merry said ruefully. "I think we had our fill of that stuff last time."

Pippin instinctively pressed his fist against his belly, remembering, even after all this time, how bloated ingesting the very tasty but far-too-filling Elven bread had made him feel for the better part of two days.

Sam couldn't help smiling. "No. Something better."

He drew his hands from behind his back, revealing what he'd had hidden there from his two friends until that moment. Merry's and Pippin's eyes both widened when they saw what Sam held in his hands.

"Your hithlain rope!" Pippin said, gazing reverently at the long, wound cord of elvish make, Sam's gift from the Lady Galadriel. The slender but strong rope felt like silk, but was easy to grip and returned to its owner with the slightest of tugs, as though at will, releasing whatever knot was tied in it.

"I thought it might come in handy," Sam said as he handed the rope, one of his most prized possessions, to Merry. "Now understand, this is a loan. You take good care of it, and I expect to have it returned to me when you both come back."

The tightness in Sam's voice belied his teasing words, as did his eyes, which shimmered with tears. His hidden meaning was understood by his two friends: he wanted them to both come back, safe and sound. And if returning his precious elven rope provided additional motivation for them to do so, well, so much the better. Both Merry and Pippin reached out and lay a hand on each of Sam's shoulders, silently reassuring their friend as best they could that they would, indeed, return. They certainly had every intention of doing so.

Sam's lips were pressed together tightly, and he glanced over his shoulder at his wife and children, framed by the round window of their home. "Perhaps I should talk to Rosie," Sam said, "explain to her..."

"No, Sam," Merry said. "You heard Evandor last night. He won't allow you to come along. He might not have been polite about it, but he had a point. Your family comes first."

Sam sighed heavily, then nodded. "Aye, he's right about that, at least," he said. Sam then glanced at Merry sharply. "D'you trust this fellow, then?"

"Evandor?" Merry responded, one brow raised. "Oh, yes. About as far as I can throw him."

"Here, now, Merry," Pippin said, "he knows Aragorn, and we didn't think much of _him_ or his manners when we first met him, either."

"He _says _he knows Aragorn," Merry pointed out, turning to look at Pippin. The hobbit shook his head. "I don't know. There's something about him... I just don't think he's telling us everything."

"Well then, why did you agree to accompany him?" Pippin demanded, a little perturbed.

"Think of it this way," Merry explained. "If he's telling the truth, we should help him. And if he's _not _telling the truth, we should find out what he's up to."

"And then what?" Sam asked.

Merry shrugged. "Go tell Aragorn, I suppose, and let the King of men decide how to deal with it. Either way, I feel obliged to do what we can. If Evandor is telling the truth, this Prince Dredmor could threaten Rohan and perhaps even Gondor eventually, and we still have many friends in those places."

"Ah, well, that's a cheerful thought, at least," Pippin said, brightening. "Perhaps we'll see some of our friends. Oooo! And I wouldn't mind a feast at Edoras. For a bunch of horse-masters, those Rohirrim know how to set a table right and proper."

"Edoras is a bit out of the way from where we're going, Pippin," Merry reminded him gently. Inwardly, he was glad to see that Pippin's cheery countenance was not wholly suppressed by the disturbing and recently-resurrected memory of his encounter with the palantir and Sauron. Merry then turned and gave Sam a pleading look.

"You'll...explain things to Estella?" he begged Sam.

The stocky hobbit's eyes widened, and he shrugged apologetically. "I'll do my best," he said dubiously.

Pippin coughed suddenly and rolled his eyes. Both Merry and Sam turned to glare at him, but Pippin merely looked away innocently into the distance and began to whistle a drinking song, wisely forgoing any commentary... for a change.

Merry and Pippin took their leave of Sam and clambered back onto their ponies to set out from Hobbiton, heading east, where they would join Evandor and continue their journey.

"You know," Pippin said as they rode, "the Bolger women are prone to obesity as they age. I mean, the Bolger men are as well. Actually, now that I think of it, all hobbits are prone to get a little broader around the middle with time. But the Bolgers especially. Granted, a little extra weight makes a man look dignified and prosperous, but on a woman..."

"If you had _any_ sense of self-preservation, Pippin, which past experience has led me to very much doubt," Merry said sharply, "you'd _shut up _about Estella."

* * *

Merry and Pippin rode through Bywater and onto the Great East Road; there they were reunited with Evandor, who awaited them atop his midnight-black steed. His cobalt eyes regarded the hobbits coldly. 

"That certainly took you long enough," the dark-robed Ranger said, the flat tone of his voice belying the edge of his words. "It is nearly mid-day."

"'Tis a long and perilous journey we embark upon," Pippin objected. "Our party has to be properly provisioned." He reached behind himself and affectionately patted one of the bulging saddlebags, which were filled to overflowing with apples, carrots, sausages, cheese, bread, and so on--even a few bottles of malt beer.

"We have experience at this sort of thing," Merry added with a sweet smile.

The Ranger glared at them from beneath his heavy brow, then grunted in seeming resignation. "Come then. Time is wasting and we have a long road ahead. Onwards, Nahar!" he urged his steed, accompanying his words with an affectionate pat of the animal's neck. With that, the great black horse assumed a quick trot and Evandor rode off down the road. Merry and Pippin had to force their ponies to a moderate gallop just to keep up to him.

"I wonder what placed the beehive in his breeches," Merry remarked to Pippin as they rode after their new companion.

Their perception of their companion's haste was borne out by his behaviour as they rode. Frequently, Evandor and his horse would ride far on ahead of the two hobbits and their ponies, and would disappear around a bend in the road. The hobbits would hasten to catch up, and would in short order find the Ranger waiting for them, his expression impatient. He would then urge his horse on and the pattern would repeat itself. Fortunately, the two hobbits had traveled in haste with a Ranger before. They knew how futile it would be to try to explain--let alone enjoy--the many meal-times throughout the day that were a hobbit custom. So Merry and Pippin contented themselves with eating as they rode, reaching into the saddlebags for the occasional handful of food. Evandor spotted them doing this and remarked upon it most uncharitably.

"I suppose the ponies suffer none the worse for having the weight of all that food transferred from saddlebag to saddle," he said, one heavy brow raised as he rode along beside them for a change. "For such small creatures, you hobbits seem to require an inordinate amount of sustenance."

"And for men blessed with long life," Merry countered, "you Dúnedain always seem to be in an extraordinary hurry. Travelling with you reminds me of travelling with Aragorn--rushed and exhausting!"

Merry glanced at Evandor and saw the corner of the man's mouth twitch upwards beneath his dark beard, and his head nod upwards briefly. He also heard a low grunt rumble from the man's throat, and supposed that this was the Ranger's version of laughter. Strangely, Merry noticed, now that he looked upon Evandor in the light of day, he could discern subtle lines upon the man's face, around the eyes and mouth--what the hobbits normally called laugh lines. They seemed out of place on the dour Ranger's face; his behaviour seemed to indicate that Evandor rarely gave in to merriment at all--or if he had, something had caused him to stop, or at least resist, enjoying such levity.

"You'll not persuade me to change my ways by comparing me to Aragorn," Evandor told him, his flat tone of voice returning quickly. "If I could be half the man he is, I should be most satisfied."

Speaking of the hobbits' friend so highly helped to mollify them a little. Pippin decided they should learn more about the man who was leading them on this quest. "So how old are you, then, if you don't mind my asking?" he asked.

Again, Evandor's mouth corners curled upwards briefly, a subtle sign of his amusement.

"Be glad I am not a woman, who would take great offence at such a query," Evandor said. A subtle twinkle appeared in his eye, if only briefly. "How old do you think I am?" he asked Pippin.

"Well," Pippin said, after a moment's thought, "based upon our familiarity with Aragorn--who was, I admit, the only Dúnedan Merry and I have ever met--I would posit that your kind ages at a little less than half the rate of ordinary men. So, though you have the appearance of a man in his thirties, I would say you must be at least twice that--say, seventy years old or thereabouts?"

"A well thought-out and reasonably accurate guess," Evandor said. "I am seventy-six."

Pippin nodded, smiling, quite proud regarding his reasoning and that his guess had been so close. He glanced at Merry, his expression clearly indicating how very well-pleased with himself he was, but his friend seemed indifferent. Merry was watching the Ranger carefully, his suspicion barely masked. Pippin frowned. He thought he was getting along with Evandor splendidly, as much as one could with a taciturn Ranger. Merry's continued mistrust of Evandor was quickly starting to rankle Pippin, especially since they had committed to accompanying the man on his mission.

"And how long have you known Aragorn?" Merry asked. The question seemed friendly, but Pippin could tell Merry wanted to cross-examine the Ranger to see if he could find any contradictions in his story that would confirm his misgivings about the man.

"Hmm," Evandor said, thinking for a moment while he absent-mindedly stroked his horse's neck. "I met him for the first time when I was but fourteen, and he in his late twenties, so some fifty years. But as I said last night, it would be inaccurate to claim that there is genuine friendship between us; indeed, he and I are barely acquaintances. In all our combined years, I can count the number of times I have met him on the fingers of one hand."

Merry nodded thoughtfully in time to the clip-clop of his pony's hoofs upon the road as he mulled over this information. He took the opportunity to visually examine Evandor's saddle bags for any more clues about the man, but saw nothing of note--save for a second sword the Ranger had strapped to the back of his saddle. Briefly, Merry wondered why Evandor was not wearing it along with his other sword; he knew that some men wore and fought with two swords. Then he glanced at the broadsword the Ranger wore, with its long, thick hilt, and realized it was a heavy weapon that would require a double-handed grip to be wielded effectively. Though Merry would not consider himself an expert, the second sword appeared somewhat smaller and lighter than the Ranger's great broadsword. Unable to determine its purpose, Merry merely shrugged and concluded that Evandor, perhaps wisely, carried with him a spare.

The hobbit turned his mind to what Evandor had said about his acquaintanceship with Aragorn, and he had to acknowledge that it sounded plausible, right down to their respective ages. For Merry knew well that Aragorn--or, more properly, King Elessar of Gondor--would have just turned ninety. In fact, he, Sam and Pippin had been invited to the King's birthday celebration; had the journey not been such a long one, they would have attended, but the harvest was just starting, and they had to send their regrets. Had they known another Ranger would come to bring them on yet another adventure in the east, they might have changed their minds.

_The east..._ The thought made something stir in Merry's mind suddenly.

"So tell me," he suddenly said, "how is it that a Ranger of the _north _knows so much about doings in the _east_? Mirkwood forest is quite far from the usual stomping grounds of the Dúnedain--on the other side of a mountain range, in fact!"

Rather than answering, Evandor turned in the saddle to stare at Merry. The hobbit boldly returned the tall man's steely gaze.

"You are very suspicious, Meriadoc Brandybuck," he eventually said, then turned away from the hobbit. "I suppose that is one of many reasons you survived the war. The simple fact is that several years ago, I left the north and made my home in the east." Evandor then fell silent, his expression serious. His cobalt eyes stared ahead down the road, though they seemed to be gazing over a thousand miles away.

"What made you..." Merry began to ask, but as soon as he did, Evandor started in his saddle and cut him off with an angry look.

"We're wasting time," the Ranger growled. He glanced at the little ponies upon which the two hobbits rode. "Those plodding ponies of yours are slowing us down."

"Well, they're not racehorses, that's true," Pippin acknowledged, if a little defensively. Hobbits were quite fond of their ponies, which were a much more manageable size than the Big Folk's unruly horses. The little creatures were valued for their unfaltering capacity for hard work, be it tilling soil or carrying goods to market. Speed was not something hobbits prized in their sturdy little steeds.

"When we reach Bree," Evandor said, "we shall trade them in for a proper horse."

Both Merry and Pippin's mouths fell open. "A _horse?_" they asked in unison, their trepidation obvious.

"Don't worry," Evandor said, "we shall get one that's hobbit-friendly."

"I don't know if such a creature _exists_!" Merry said, frowning.

"Then we will make do with what we can _find_," Evandor said, his voice a low growl, his teeth grinding together. He turned to look at the hobbits, glowering at them. Merry and Pippin stared back at him, leaning backwards in their saddles, away from the suddenly-enraged man. The Ranger seemed to notice their shocked expressions, for he closed his eyes and took a deep breath as if to calm himself. "We have a long journey ahead of us," he said in a slightly friendlier tone, "and with each passing day, Prince Dredmor draws more of Sauron's forces to him, and the peril to the kingdoms of the west grows. Coming this far to find you cost me more than a fortnight already. We _cannot _delay any further!"

As Evandor finished speaking, for the briefest of moments, an expression of terrible desperation crossed his face. But it appeared there only for a heartbeat, and it was gone so quickly, and his usual severe expression so quick to return, that the hobbits wondered whether they had, indeed, seen it at all. But they had also heard the pleading tone in his voice. Once Evandor had yet again ridden ahead so that he was out of earshot, Merry and Pippin immediately fell to discussing what they had witnessed.

"He is in an extraordinary hurry, like you said," Pippin remarked. "I suppose it's commendable, how deeply he cares about the kingdoms and the people threatened by this Prince."

"There's more to it than that, Pippin, mark my words," Merry said as they trotted after the dark, determined figure of Evandor and his horse. "He must have travelled from somewhere just west of Mirkwood Forest, across the Misty Mountains, and all the way to the Shire, in _two weeks_, he says." Merry turned and looked at Pippin for emphasis. "That journey normally takes a month, at least. And the way he spoke just now... I'm telling you, Pip, he has something _personal_ at stake in all this."

"Such as...?" Pippin prompted his friend.

"I don't know any more than you do," Merry said with an exasperated shrug, "but I'm sure that before this is all through, we're going to find out."

* * *


	4. Encounter at Weathertop

**Into the East**

_A Lord of the Rings fanfic by Sisiutil_

* * *

**Chapter 4: Encounter at Weathertop**

At Bree, the trio of travellers managed to find a horse that was rein-trained and accustomed to being ridden by Hobbits, while swift enough to satisfy Evandor's demands, though the Ranger became quite obviously irritated with the time it took to find such an animal. Reluctantly, the Hobbits traded their ponies for the much larger beast, though he seemed friendly enough when Pippin fed him one of the carrots from their saddlebags.

"'Is name is Tom," the leathery-faced stable owner told them. "Me son named 'im for the crazy old man what lives in the Old Forest. Not that the 'orse is crazy, far from it, 'e's gentle as a lamb, as you'll find, my good li'l sirs. But legend 'as it Ol' Tom Bombadil wears white boots, an' as you can see, the 'orse 'as those too."

Merry and Pippin glanced at the horse's legs. He did, indeed, have white markings on his lower legs, while the rest of the horse was chestnut brown. Merry and Pippin glanced at one another, then turned to the stable owner, feeling obliged to set him right on one or two accounts.

"We've met Tom Bombadil," Merry informed him, "and he is _not_ crazy."

"He's quite hospitable, in fact," Pippin said. "And just for the record, his boots are yellow, not white."

"You two?" the stable owner said, eying the two Hobbits dubiously. "You braved the Old Forest and encountered old Tom Bombadil?"

"It was some years ago, but yes," Merry replied, steadily returning the stable owner's questioning gaze.

The man shook his head and laughed under his breath. "Well, if'n you both say so, my good li'l sirs," he said, his lips curling into an indulgent smile beneath a layer of dark brown stubble.

Merry sighed quietly and decided to drop the subject of Tom Bombadil altogether; few Hobbits believed their story of their meeting with the mysterious inhabitant of the Old Forest, either. He glanced forlornly at the two ponies, each relieved of their heavy saddlebags and being brushed by an attentive stable hand.

"You'll take good care of Bill and Francis?" Merry asked the stable owner.

"Aye, sir," the man assured him. "Tell you what--if'n you come back this way an' they're still in my possession, I'll give 'em back to you in exchange for Tom. Or failin' that, any two ponies I 'ave on 'and."

"That's most fair and kind an offer," Pippin said, as indeed it was.

"Always glad to do business with the li'l folk," the stable owner said, and voicing an attitude that was shared of many of the merchants in Bree.

"Come," Evandor said, interrupting them. "Our business here is concluded, and we are losing daylight."

The two Hobbits sighed and approached their new steed. Evandor had to lift them up and place them in the saddle, for the horse's back was far too high for them to climb upon. Merry took the reins, while Pippin sat behind him on the saddle and nervously placed his arms around Merry's chest. Tom did seem gentle and responsive to Merry's control. But the height at which they sat made both Merry and Pippin nervous, for a fall from a horse's back could result in a serious injury to a rider as small as a Hobbit. Not that Evandor seemed to care; without another glance at the Hobbits, he climbed back atop his own midnight-black horse and patted its neck affectionately. Merry frowned as he watched the Ranger's tender behaviour towards his horse; it seemed so contradictory to the man's harsh, even sullen manner.

Then Evandor spurred his horse into motion, and the Hobbits' new mount followed. Shortly thereafter, they were back on the road, heading eastward.

* * *

"Must we stop _here_?" Pippin asked, looking about warily.

Evandor glared at him and grumbled derisively. "You've been pestering me to stop for a rest since mid-day. I finally agree to do so, and now you're particular about the location?"

"It's just...terribly _exposed _here," Pippin went on.

"All the better to see anyone approaching our position," Evandor replied as he loosened a saddlebag from his horse's weary flank.

"Or for them to see us," Merry said ruefully.

The sun was setting, and the autumn air grew cooler as the shadows lengthened. To the east, looming higher with each approaching step, were the peaks of the Misty Mountains, their forested slopes turning indigo in the fading light. Evandor had led the Hobbits and their steeds up to a hill from which they could espy the surrounding land. Atop the high knoll were ruined remnants of an ancient fortification. Evandor had finally stopped beneath a ridge, barely taller than himself, at the side of the hilltop which would shelter them from the wind and, should it rain, from that as well. Below them, at a shallow incline, stretched a small meadow; below that, a copse of bushes and trees.

So tired were Merry and Pippin from yet another day's long, non-stop journey that they had not recognized the place until they were atop it. When they reached Evandor's chosen spot, they began doing their best to dissuade the Ranger from using it as a resting place, for both Hobbits were certain that neither of them could gain any rest there--not after all they had been through the last time they'd set eyes upon this forlorn ridge east of Bree.

Evandor eyed Merry appraisingly. "You speak from experience," he said as he tethered their horses to the branches of a dead tree that had fallen from the lip of the hilltop across the ridge behind them.

Merry nodded slowly. "Aye. We've been here on Weathertop before," he said. "One of the Nazgul wounded Frodo here, grievously."

Evandor's cobalt blue eyes widened a little at that, and he glanced about as if eyeing the hilltop with its toppled and moss-encrusted fortifications for the first time. "I had no idea," he said. "We Rangers have long used Weathertop as a waypoint in our travels."

"That was why Aragorn, or Strider as we called him at the time, brought us here," Merry said. "He soon regretted the decision."

"Well, in fairness to Aragorn, it was probably the fire we lit that brought the Ring-Wraiths visiting," Pippin reminded his friend.

Evandor actually managed to look amused, just for a moment. "Let me guess," he said. "you simply wanted to cook a meal." The two hobbits nodded abashedly and shrugged. "Well. The Nazgul are no more, thanks in no small part to you and your fellow halflings. I think we can risk a fire for a hot meal," he said, his tone almost charitable.

Pippin smiled and rubbed his hands together. This was the best mood they'd seen Evandor in since they'd left the Shire. He put it down to the fact that the Ranger was once again in familiar territory, and felt more satisfied regarding their pace and progress now that the two Hobbits were riding that great beast of a horse rather than their more comfortable ponies. Their progress had been slow at first, which aggravated him, but Merry and Pippin had gradually been growing used to riding their huge horse, as well as to Evandor's insistence on travelling for long distances without pausing for meals or rest. Though saddle-sore and tired, Merry and Pippin were once again growing accustomed to travelling.

Nonetheless, their saddlebags were quickly growing empty, though they were only a few days into their long journey. Such was the inevitable result of mixing long, hard days of travel with a hobbit's insatiable appetite. Evandor's haste and preoccupation with finding a worthy steed in Bree had prevented the Hobbits from restocking their dwindling rations. Merry and Pippin pored over the contents of their saddlebags, looking for something that would benefit from a blazing roast over licking flames, but found nothing beyond several apples, carrots, a few bottles of malt beer, and the remains of their cheese and bread.

"May as well not bother with the fire," Merry grumbled.

"Let me see if I can fetch us a few fine rabbits or other game," Evandor said, pulling a bow and quiver of arrows from where they hung upon his saddle.

"Oh!" Pippin exclaimed, delighted. "That's most generous of you."

"'Tis no trouble," Evandor said. "It will take my thoughts away from..." he began to say, but his voice trailed off, and he said no more. He cast a dark look at the two hobbits, as though he had said too much and they would discern too much from it. Then he turned on his heel and strode off down the hill towards the surrounding bush.

"There, you see?" Merry said, nudging Pippin with his elbow once he was certain the Ranger was out of earshot.

"See what?" Pippin replied, annoyed that Merry's nudge had disturbed his efforts to arrange the kindling he'd gathered in the best way for roasting rabbit. He sorely missed Sam at that moment--not only for his companionship, but for his esteemed cooking skills.

"He practically admitted there's something bothering him, something he won't share with us!" Merry insisted.

"Oh, tosh," Pippin said as he began scratching two rough stones against one another over some tinder. "Why do you suspect him so?"

"Why do you trust him?" Merry responded.

"He reminds me of Aragorn," Pippin replied simply. He kept rubbing the stones; he had yet to create a spark that would set the tinder ablaze. He began knocking the stones together harder. They made a harsh smacking, scratching noise.

"Hmph," Merry grumbled. "I think that's calculated, on his part. Frankly, for all his fine words of flattery, I think he cares more for his horse than he does for us," he said, glancing over at the large, midnight-black horse. The beast was placidly munching on some long, sweet grass that grew on the hillside, but Merry noted the horse's muscular flanks and sharp, dark eyes. In his brief time with the Rohirrim he had learned much about the animal those people favoured above all others, and he recognized this one as a formidable war horse. Yet Evandor stroked the beast and spoke to it softly as if it were a beloved child. Merry shook his head, adding that observation to his list of puzzling facts about their enigmatic travelling companion.

"Ah!" Pippin exclaimed as smoke emerged from the tinder. He knelt over and gently blew on the nascent smoulder, encouraging it to grow to a blaze. Once the first few flames licked upwards from the tinder, he transferred it to the kindling and wood he'd carefully piled together. "Could we leave aside your theories of hidden agendas and conspiracies for the night? I'm much too tired to listen to them. Once my belly is full of rabbit, I'm likely to fall asleep immediately thereafter."

Merry decided to keep his counsel, and before long, Pippin had a nice little fire blazing away. Merry shifted uneasily where he sat upon the ground. A fire on Weathertop brought back unpleasant memories of just such a supposedly-comforting blaze and the most unwelcome company it had attracted. He glanced around nervously.

"Will you settle down?" Pippin chided him. "You're worse than a fart in a mitten!"

Merry stood up and began to pace. "Do you think I could relax in this place? I'm surprised you can be so calm."

"Maybe I just conceal it better than you," Pippin said quietly as he tended to the fire. It was warm and bright and comforting in such a dark and troubling place.

Merry sighed and patted Pippin on the shoulder--not reassuringly, but sympathetically. "For a change, I'll be quite content when Evandor rouses us from sleep early tomorrow and leads us away from here," he said. "Where has he gotten to, anyway?"

"He's hunting," Pippin reminded him.

"I know that," Merry said. "But don't you think he should have been back by now?" The sun had set behind the distant western hills, and darkness had begun to creep across the land. Merry looked up and could already see the first stars twinkling in the indigo sky to the east, just above the dark, craggy peaks of the Misty Mountains.

Pippin shrugged. "Perhaps, perhaps not."

"There!" Merry exclaimed and looked out into the deepening gloom. "Did you hear that?"

"Hear what?"

Merry was silent a moment, holding his breath, listening intently. Pippin frowned at him and opened his mouth to speak, but then stopped; he, too, had heard something. It was a rustling sound, coming from the bushes just a little ways down the slope from them. Pippin stood up beside his friend and gazed intently at the foliage. He and Merry glanced at one another anxiously, then looked back at the bushes, which were now as silent and as still as the grave.

"It... might just be a deer... or an owl," Pippin whispered.

"Maybe," Merry whispered back, then slowly moved his hand to his belt, where he drew forth his Elvish dagger from its sheath. "If we were any other place in Middle Earth, save for the Black Land itself, I'd content myself with that explanation."

Pippin nodded in agreement with Merry's statement and pulled out his own dagger. Weathertop simply had too many bad memories for them; not for the first time that evening, they both regretted Evandor's choosing it as a resting place. Nearby, where they were tethered to a fallen tree, the two horses, Tom and Nahar, whinnied nervously. Then the bushes rustled again, and the Hobbits saw the branches shake, and they both wished with all their might that whatever was emerging from the forest was something harmless.

It was not.

"Well, well, well, what have we here?" an Orc said as he emerged from the bushes, impatiently pushing the leaves and branches aside as he walked slowly towards the two Hobbits. He was shorter than a man, but his chest and shoulders were broad, his arms long and muscular. His yellowish, pig-like eyes reflected the light of the Hobbits' fire, and his lower jaw thrust forward, revealing a row of stained, crooked teeth, two of them rising up like tusks. His skin was grey, like that of all Orcs, and his hair a matted mess.

"Looks like two halflings," said another Orc, shorter and more wiry than the first, as he followed his companion out of the bush. "A long way from the Shire!" he added, then snorted with laughter until dark mucous sprayed from his nostrils.

"Not much of a meal," said a third Orc, taller than the first one, with a flat face that looked like it had been hit by a shovel.

"A meal nonetheless," said a fourth, and two more Orcs came out of the bush from behind him, nodding and giggling perversely. "And they have horses! Now there's a feast for our empty bellies!"

As if he understood the words, Evandor's great black horse, Nahar, lowered his head and stamped angrily at the ground with his right foreleg. Undaunted, the half-dozen Orcs marched up the slope towards the Hobbits, their beady eyes casting about for more formidable opposition. Seeing none, they grew more confident, and continued to advance upon Merry and Pippin.

"Stay back!" Merry shouted, and held out his dagger towards the Orcs. Pippin did the same. The vile creatures were less than ten paces away now.

The first Orc hissed at the sight of Merry's dagger, which was now pointing at him. He stopped dead in his tracks, and the other Orcs did likewise. "That's an Elvish blade..." he growled.

The other Orcs drew breaths over crooked teeth and glowered and snarled at the Hobbits and their weapons. Orcs, or so legend had it, were perversions of Elves that had been captured and corrupted by the ancient dark lord Melkor. Regardless of the veracity of that story, the Orcs were as hideous as the Elves were beautiful, making them natural enemies, and everything Elvish seemed especially loathsome to the Orcs. Elvish weapons, in particular, seemed capable of causing Orcs greater harm than any other kind, as though the metal itself contained a poison that infected Orcish blood. That thought was something of a solace to Merry and Pippin as they attempted to hold off the host of large, hungry Orcs with their small Elvish daggers.

"Nasty!" said the second Orc, the short and wiry one. "Nasty little halflings!"

"We'll make you pay for brandishing those needles at us..." the flat-faced Orc snarled at them.

"Come on then," Merry said, making an effort to sound braver than he felt. "I helped Lady Eowyn of Rohan slay the Witch King. I witnessed the fall of Mordor. This blade has killed more Orcs than the paltry host I see before me now. Do your worst!"

The Orcs, so confident a moment before, now hesitated when they heard Merry's bold words, and the even bolder claims he was making. They glanced at one another uncertainly. Even these lowly foot soldiers of Sauron's once-might army had heard the tales, the ones that claimed that a mere halfling had been the one to destroy the great ring of their former master. What if this was that halfling? Had they bitten off more than they could chew in challenging these helpless-looking little creatures?

"Lies!" the lead Orc spat. Then he laughed. "You're like one of those yappy little watchdogs men have in their homes. They make tasty little morsels too." The other Orcs began to snicker, their confidence returning. "Yappy little halfling! I was going to cook you, but now I'm going to hack off your limbs, eat 'em raw, and make you _watch_!"

The lead Orc took a step forward, his battered but long and sharp sword thrusting towards Merry, his talon-like free hand ready to reach out and grab the Hobbit. The other Orcs surged forward. Nahar whinnied angrily and tried to rear up upon his hind legs, but his tether prevented him from doing so. Merry and Pippin courageously braced themselves for a fight they knew they could not win.

* * *


	5. Reunions and Resolutions

**Into the East**

_A Lord of the Rings fanfic by Sisiutil_

* * *

**Chapter 5: Reunions and Resolutions**

_THWIPP!!_

The lead orc suddenly stopped his attack. His yellowish eyes opened wide, and he dropped his sword to the ground. His hands then clutched at his throat, from which the tail end of an arrow was protruding. His fellow orcs halted their advance upon the hobbits and stared at their leader in shock and bewilderment as he wheezed his last breath. Black blood sprayed from his mouth. He tottered to the left, then the right, and finally crashed to the ground.

"Four hundred and seventy-seven!" a clear, lilting voice proclaimed from the top of the ridge above and behind the hobbits.

"Blast you, you impudent youngster!" a deeper, rougher voice replied from the same location. "It's no fair if you kill 'em from a distance when I have to get in close!"

"Very well then," the other speaker, his voice almost musical, replied. "Let us show these orcs how we fight in close quarters!"

A lusty roar of laughter signified his companion's approval of that plan, and Merry and Pippin watched as two forms leapt down from the ridge, landing in between the suddenly-fearful orcs and themselves. One of the two was tall and slender, his clothing the same dark green as the forest around them, his hair long and as lustrous as spun gold; in his hand he carried a longbow, his weapon of choice. The other figure was short and stocky, his hair and beard dark brown and long and thick. He had a helmet upon his head; his hands held a heavy battle-axe which he wielded with the comfort and expertise that comes with many years of experience.

Merry and Pippin laughed with joy and no small amount of relief as the two figures quickly advanced upon the remaining orcs, for they recognized them both and could not believe their luck in encountering them at such a dire moment. In all of Middle Earth, there were few other souls the two hobbits would rather have at their sides when battling orcs than the elf Legolas and his close friend and constant companion, the dwarf Gimli.

"Have at you, you filthy scum!" Gimli shouted at the thin, wiry orc, who screeched angrily when he saw the dwarf and his battle-axe advancing upon him. He swung his orc-blade at the dwarf, but Gimli ably swatted aside the blow with his axe, which he then sliced across the orc's body in a diagonal arc. The wiry orc screamed as he was cut open and fell to the ground. "Four hundred and sixty-three!" Gimli shouted, keeping score in his and Legolas' on-going orc-killing competition.

The flat-faced orc snarled and took a step towards Legolas, his hatred of all elves contorting his already-ugly face into a hideous sneer. Faster than any eye watching could follow, Legolas drew an arrow from the quiver that was slung over his shoulder and hung upon his back. He nocked the arrow upon the string of his bow, drew it back, and took his shot all in one smooth, elegant motion. The arrow struck the big orc in the chest, penetrating his heart. The orc staggered and then fell dead at the elf's feet.

"Four hundred and seventy-eight!" Legolas declared, grinning and stealing a glance at Gimli.

The dwarf grunted at his friend in disgust, but did not look his way, as he was busy advancing upon the remaining three orcs. Their coarse bravado dissipated in the face of the skill exhibited by their two new opponents. They now clustered together, their swords stretched towards the formidable dwarf in hopes of warding him off. Instead, Gimli marched towards them, a low, confident chuckle in his throat. With one well-timed stroke, he was thinking, he could fell all three and catch up a little on his friend's rising tally in their never-ending game.

Gimli took a step forward, preparing to swat away the orcs' swords with his axe, when the vile creatures suddenly lost their nerve. As one, they screeched angrily and fearfully, then turned and ran back towards the bushes from which they had emerged. Legolas' bow sent forth another arrow, and one of the retreating orcs fell dead, an arrow piercing his back and his merciless heart.

"Four hundred and seventy-nine!" Legolas shouted.

"Blast you, Legolas, those three were _mine_!" Gimli shouted as he started running after the remaining two orcs. "Leave me the last two or I'll tan your elvish hide!"

Gimli often claimed that dwarves were natural sprinters, and it was no mere boast--unlike many of his other claims. Though short, Dwarves' legs were stocky and powerful and capable of great, if brief, bursts of speed. Thus, Gimli was sure he could catch the remaining two orcs before they reached the cover of the bushes, provided Legolas didn't shoot them as well. He bellowed a battle-cry as he ran after the orcs. Just a few more paces...

Suddenly, the bushes parted, and a tall man in dark clothing stepped out. His broadsword was out its scabbard and glinted in the waxing moonlight. The orcs gasped and dug their heels into the grass, trying to stop, but their forward momentum carried them forward. They raised their swords in defense, and one even reached towards his belt for a dagger to augment his weaponry against this new enemy, but it was for naught. The man's sword slashed beneath their raised blades, across their abdomens, and the two orcs screeched in pain as they were mortally wounded. They fell to the ground, twitched a few times, and then died.

"Two," Evandor said calmly as he stood above the pair of orcs he had slain, one brow raised as he glanced at the dwarf and then at his elf companion.

"Why do I even bother?" Gimli grumbled as he came to a stop and dejectedly lowered his now-unneeded battle-axe. He sighed heavily, then glanced at the man standing before him and frowned. There was something very familiar about him. Legolas was nimbly approaching him from behind, also studying the newcomer carefully.

"Legolas!"

"Gimli!"

The two companions had their attention drawn away from Evandor by the sound of two very familiar voices shouting their names. They turned, and to their astonishment, saw the small forms of their old friends Merry and Pippin running towards them.

"As I live and breathe!" Gimli shouted, his lips curling into a delighted smile beneath his long moustaches, "'Tis the young Hobbits!"

Legolas laughed delightedly, dropped to one knee, and was embraced by Pippin and Merry in turn. Gimli was greeted in a similar fashion, though he only needed to bend forward slightly for the Hobbits to hug him.

"Glad though I am to see you both," Legolas said in his lilting elvish voice, "we are a long way from the Shire, my friends. Pray tell, what brings you to this desolate place, so far from your homes?"

Merry glanced over Legolas' shoulder at the tall, dark form of Evandor, and nodded. "He does," the hobbit answered, drawing the attention of their two old companions back to the Ranger.

"Indeed," Gimli said. "And who might you be then, stranger? I must confess, your bearing seems familiar..."

"As well it might be," Evandor said. "If I am indeed honoured to be in the presence of two more companions of the Ring-Bearer, and I gather by the names my diminutive companions used to greet you that I am, then you are also acquainted with my kinsman whom you know as Aragorn. I am Evandor, son of Ethanor, and like King Elessar I am a Ranger and one of the few remaining Dúnedain."

"Are you now?" Gimli said, his thick, bushy brows rising on his forehead. Like Merry, his suspicious nature was not assuaged by a man's claim of kinship or familiarity with one of his friends, no matter how noble and dear to his heart that friend might be. "And what business do you have, taking these young hobbits from the safety of their homes and making them travel afar where vicious bands of orcs wander the land?"

Evandor eyed the dwarf for a moment as if taking Gimli's measure. One corner of his mouth then twitched and he grunted; Merry and Pippin were coming to recognize this as the Ranger's version of a bemused grin and laugh.

"I shall be more than happy to explain, Master Dwarf," Evandor replied, "if you and your companion will join us for supper." With those words, he took a step back and reached down into the bushes behind him. He drew out a leather thong that was tied around the hind legs of four rabbits and two fat grouse.

Gimli couldn't help himself. At the sight of the fresh game, his mouth began to water, and he smacked his lips together in anticipation.

"Ah, well," the dwarf said, "that's most hospitable of him, isn't it, Legolas?"

"Quite," the elf said, a slight grin curling his lips as he glanced knowingly at his companion. He did not know this stranger, but Legolas quickly gathered that Evandor had enough dealings with dwarves in his past to know how to get on their better side quickly and easily.

As if to prove this deduction on Legolas' part, Evandor leaned forward towards Gimli, allowing his bundle of fresh game to sway tantalizingly in front of the dwarf's face. "I believe we may even have a little malt beer left in one of our saddlebags..." he murmured.

"Malt... beer...?" Gimli muttered, his eyes opening wide. "By Gróin's lathe, I've not tasted malt beer in over a fortnight!"

"Come then," Evandor said, allowing a very slight smile to curl his lips. "I see my hobbit companions have a good fire going, and there is much to tell."

* * *

Some time later, the elf, dwarf, man, and two hobbits had finished eating and Evandor had finished relating his account of Prince Dredmor, the new master of the restored Dol Guldur, the Palantir of Minas Ithil that he purportedly possessed, and the dark forces he was drawing to his banner. Gimli and Legolas sat beside the fire in silence for some time after Evandor finished speaking, digesting both their food and this most unpleasant news.

"The Palantir of Minas Ithil!" Gimli muttered, then shook his head. "Sauron's own seeing stone!" He raised a bottle of malt beer to his lips and drained it, then lowered the empty bottle and stared at it sadly.

Merry had stolen a glance at Pippin as Gimli spoke, and he had seen his companion shudder at the mere mention of the Palantir. He could not help but wonder if Pippin would be capable of stealing the dread stone, as Evandor wanted them to do, when they finally reached their destination.

"The tidings you bear are dark indeed," Legolas said, his elegant elven features creased in uncharacteristic concern. "And if you will excuse my saying so, somewhat surprising. Though my own people call the north-eastern reaches of Mirkwood our home, we have long kept watch upon Amon Lanc in the forest's southern reach, ever since the Dark Lord was forced to abandon it, partly to prevent even the shattered remains of his old stronghold from falling into the wrong hands, which you attest it has. I would have thought that the Silvan Elves would have prevented such a turn of events, or that I at least would have heard of it."

Evandor nodded, as if he had expected the elf to question his story. He stirred their fire with a long stick, coaxing it to a brighter, warmer blaze, as if to ward off a chill that his news had suddenly brought upon them. "You speak the truth, Legolas, son of Thranduil," he said. "But we both know that more of your people depart for the Undying Lands every day; indeed, you are the first elf I have seen in months, and I there was a time when I used to encounter your people almost daily." Evandor shook his head sadly. "There are too few of the Silvan Elves remaining in Mirkwood to watch all its corners, and most of them are concerned with their preparations to leave Middle-Earth. I am sure Dredmor bided his time until he could skulk into Dol Guldur without any elves to watch or allay him."

"Wouldn't men have taken over the task of watching Dol Guldur?" Merry asked, his own suspicions of Evandor bubbling to the surface yet again.

"In time, I am sure they would," Evandor replied. "But the numbers of men have been greatly diminished by the war, and those that survived are kept busy rebuilding their own lands. They have little time to spare to keep watch on the supposedly-abandoned former strongholds of a defeated enemy."

"There is much truth in what you say as well, Evandor son of Ethanor," Leglas said. "The fall of Sauron had the unfortunate consequence of scattering the forces of Mordor across Middle Earth. Though diminished and leaderless, the orcs waylay travellers and attack defenseless farms and villages. My companion and I have dedicated ourselves to hunting down the remnants of Sauron's armies."

"Ah, is that what you're doing?" Evandor said, a hint of a smile twitching at the corners of his mouth. "And here I thought the two of you were hunting orcs in a quest to finally resolve the ages-old rivalry between elf and dwarf, with the greatest score deciding the matter once and for all."

"A score which, I might point out," Gimli suddenly interjected, "was well in my favour, before my companion here _cheated_."

Legolas' narrow brows rose. "I? Cheated?!"

"Don't try to deny it, you know you did!" Gimli asserted as Merry and Pippin began to chuckle. "I had the lead before we went to Erabor, and you pulled that _trick_ with the bridge!"

"There was no great _trick_," Legolas replied innocently and without offense, for he was used to his friend's periodic outbursts over their game. "We were being pursued across a rope bridge," he explained to the others. "Once we reached the end, I merely cut the ropes," he said with a shrug.

"With _twenty-seven orcs _still on the bridge!" Gimli protested, pointing a finger at the Elf angrily. "All of which you claimed for _your_ total!"

"That seems only fair," Legolas said.

Gimli growled angrily. "You impudent young elf! You should have let them come at us! We could have cut them down, one by one!" Gimli asserted, swinging his hands as if he still held his battle-axe and was gleefully slaying orcs.

"My solution strikes me as much more efficient," Legolas said calmly.

"But not nearly as _sporting_!" Gimli grumbled.

"Regardless," Legolas said, his Elven features alight with amusement, "our quest to rid MiddleoEarth of orcs is how we came to be here tonight."

"Very fortuitously, I might add," Pippin said, his appreciation for his friends' timely appearance apparent in his voice.

"Indeed," Gimli agreed. "We had been pursuing that group of orcs for three days, all the way from Trollshaws! No wonder I'm so famished!" He said, patting his stomach morosely and wiped some remnants of the grouse he'd consumed from his dense, braided moustache. He glanced at Evandor. "Eh, laddy... you wouldn't have any more of that malt beer laying about, would you?" he asked with a hopeful grin.

"You drank the last of it, Master Dwarf," Evandor said.

"In fact, you drank _all _of it," Merry said pointedly, frowning at his friend.

"Aye, well, 'tis thirsty work, this orc-hunting," Gimli muttered, then belched.

"Evandor," Legolas said, suddenly serious, "if enemies of the good people of Middle-Earth are indeed gathering at Dol Guldur, as you say, then I must insist that you allow me to join you in your quest to rob this Prince Dredmor of the Palantir and with it, the power he has to draw Sauron's scattered forces to him. I am a Silven Elf of the great forest; opposing any of the dark forces that gather at Dol Guldur has long been the responsibility of my people. I would be remiss if I did not do everything in my power to aid you in this endeavour. You _must_ allow me to accompany you--I am thus resolved."

The Ranger sat in silence for a moment, considering the elf and his offer of assistance. Then, slowly, he nodded. "Very well. I should be honoured to have one of the elven folk accompany us, especially another companion of the Ring-Bearer. Though I warn you, if all goes according to my plan, there may be very little for you to do. Everything, in truth, depends upon the hobbits," he said enigmatically.

Merry frowned at his words, wondering--with characteristic humility--how everything could possibly depend upon him and Pippin. Before he could ask Evandor to explain his "plan" any further, however, he was interrupted by Gimli. The dwarf belched loudly, drawing all attention to him, and then he addressed Evandor very agitatedly.

"Now wait just a moment!" Gimli said. "You'll not be taking this impudent elf to an orcish stronghold without me! He's far enough ahead in our tallies already, what with his unsportsmanlike tactics and all! If there's orcs to be killed, I'm coming along!"

Evandor's heavy brows rose dubiously. "No offense, Master Dwarf," he said, "but my plan calls for _stealth _more than battle prowess. Dwarves have many redeeming qualities, but... that is not one for which they are famed."

"WHAT?!?" Gimli exclaimed loudly, and rose to his feet, a little unsteadily, thanks to all the malt beer he had imbibed. "Not STEALTHY?!?" he shouted. "ME?!? HA!! I've the stealth of a cat on the prowl! I can creep as quietly as a mouse!" He belched again, a deep, resonant sound that echoed off the high ridge of Weathertop and across the surrounding countryside. He blinked rapidly, and held one arm out as a dizzy spell overcame him. "Ooooh," he said. Awkwardly, he sat back down upon the ground. "The elf can vouch for me," he said, waving dismissively at Legolas.

Evandor turned to Legolas, one heavy brow rising. For one of the very few times in his life, which was much longer than his youthful appearance would indicate, Legolas felt quite discomfited. Elves disliked dissembling at the best of times, but also considered it the height of honour to stand by, and stand up for, a friend. Thus, the elf was caught on the horns of a dilemma.

"Ah," he said, his eyes darting back and forth between Evandor and Gimli. "He's, um, very... adept," he said. He did not say at _what_ Gimli was adept, and hoped that Evandor would not ask.

"Mm-hmm," Gimli muttered, his eyes suddenly becoming heavy with sleep. He awkwardly waved his hand towards Legolas again. "Truer words... were never spoken. Who are you going to trust, if not an elf? Especially this one... hrrmm..."

Gimli's torso fell backwards and he was suddenly laid flat out upon the ground. He mouth opened and he began to snore. Loudly.

Legolas, meanwhile, could not speak, so deeply moved was he by his friend's last few words, even if they were spoken while drunk and half-asleep. He could hardly believe this was the same dwarf who had shouted "Never trust an elf!" at the Council of Elrond a few short years ago. He had not realized how much their friendship had improved not only Gimli's opinion of him in particular, but of elves in general. But since Gimli had likewise opened Legolas' eyes regarding dwarves and their customs and culture, he realized he should not have been so surprised.

"Well," Evandor said, turning to Legolas, "I gather that the two of you are inseparable?"

The Elf stirred himself from his reverie. "We are indeed," he said, his voice heavy with affection for his friend.

Evandor shook his head. "How remarkable. An elf and a dwarf, the closest and dearest of friends. Very well. I suppose as long as we keep Master Gimli away from any more malt beer," he paused as the dwarf disturbed the night air with another resonant snore, "then we should be reasonably clandestine. Truth to tell, if it comes to a fight, I should be very glad to have you both in our party."

"As am I!" Pippin said, then yawned and stretched. "Well, if that's settled..."

"Yes, we should get some rest," Evandor said. "We have a long journey ahead of us, and time is of the essence. We set forth at the first sign of daylight."

The Ranger rose and walked the short distance over to his bedroll. He laid himself out upon it, drew a blanket over himself, and within a few short minutes appeared to be fast asleep. Pippin followed his example, but Merry sat by the dying embers of the fire for some time, eyeing Evandor's sleeping form as he lost himself in thought. Legolas witnessed Merry's suspicious study of the sleeping Ranger and crept over beside him.

"You eye our new companion with much distrust, Master Meriadoc," Legolas whispered. "Has he done something to earn your disregard?"

Merry exhaled a long, frustrated sigh. "It's not that," he whispered back. "It's just... a feeling I have. A suspicion that he's not telling us everything."

To Merry's relief, the elf nodded in agreement. "I sensed the same reticence in him to which you refer. It may be entirely innocent, merely his nature." Legolas shrugged, then looked once again at Evandor's dark, sleeping form. "On the other hand..."

"Aye," Merry whispered, "it's the other hand that's got me worried. For I fear it conceals something in its grip, and we're about to walk into an enemy stronghold without knowing what it is."

Again Legolas nodded, and placed his hand upon his small companion's shoulder to reassure him. "He bears watching," he murmured. "I shall share that burden with you, Merry."

The Hobbit's shoulders relaxed, as if a weight had been lifted from them, or at least shifted so he no longer bore it alone. He turned and smiled at his old friend. "Thank you, Legolas. I'm so relieved that you and Gimli are here."

The elf smiled. "I am glad to see you too, Merry."

"It was very lucky, you coming across us tonight."

"Luck?" Legolas said, his eyebrows rising. "Elves do not believe in luck. But we do believe in destiny."

With that, Legolas turned and went to his own bedroll. Merry did the same soon afterwards, and slept far better than he had since he'd left Hobbiton. Even so, his sleep was still troubled by thoughts of what lay in wait for them on the road ahead, and what role their mysterious companion would ultimately play in events yet to unfold.


	6. In the Footsteps of the Fellowship

**Into the East**

_A Lord of the Rings fanfic by Sisiutil_

* * *

**Chapter 6: In the Footsteps of the Fellowship**

For the next few days, the travellers journeyed through familiar territory, for all of them save Evandor had memorably trod these paths only a few years before. From Weathertop in Eriador the party made their way to Rivendell, though few of that idyllic retreat's former elvish inhabitants remained to greet them. Nonetheless, their visit was pleasant, the more so for the good memories they shared of their previous stays there. But their stay was brief, as Evandor pressed them ever onward, and with good reason. He planned to take his companions through the high pass directly east of Rivendell, and as it was autumn, the sooner they made their way through the pass, the better chance they had at avoiding inclement weather. Even though Merry, Pippin, Legolas, and Gimli knew that the traitorous wizard Saruman was no more and would not impede their travels this time, the chilling memory of attempting the high pass in a raging blizzard hastened their steps.

Thus they traversed the high pass without incident. They encountered nothing more inclement than a light dusting of snow that decorated the fragrant pines and firs at the high elevations and reminded Merry and Pippin of the cheerful celebrations held every year in Hobbiton during the winter solstice. In their hearts, they wished for nothing more than to be home again in time to see the Green Dragon festooned with cheerful garlands and boughs of holly, with jugs of warm mulled wine on every table. Their dwindling provisions only made the two hobbits more homesick. But they had travelled further, and had opposed themselves to a far more dire foe, only a few years before, so the hobbits stifled their yearning for home and carried on.

Having successfully crossed the Misty Mountains, the party descended towards the marshy Gladden Fields. Here the familiarity of the former members of the Fellowship of the Ring with the land was diminished, and they relied upon Evandor to find them a path through the broad, flat lands, which he did--a winding track that nevertheless managed to provide a path across the Gladden Fields from the northwest to the southeast.

As they traveled, especially when they rested, Merry and Legolas attempted to draw out more details from their _de facto _leader, but he proved as reticent as he had since the hobbits had first met him. Pippin and now Gimli seemed well satisfied with Evandor's honesty; his continuing displays of his hunting prowess certainly helped win them over. Legolas and Merry had to admit that their taciturn companion did nothing to arouse their suspicions. But by the same token, he did nothing to alleviate them either.

Soon they approached the southeast corner of the Gladden Fields. To their left they could see the banks of the River Anduin, and to their right, they saw the welcome sight of the tall trees that comprised the mystical forest of Lórien. The former members of the Fellowship sighed contentedly at the sight, remembering how the beauty of the forest was only exceeded by the elven queen who had once been its mistress.

"Tell me, Evandor," Gimli asked the tall Ranger, his rough voice softened with reverence, as they rode past the edge of the wood, "in your many travels, did you ever chance to meet the Lady Galadriel?"

"Alas, no," Evandor said. "Though I heard tales of her often, many of them too ridiculous and spiteful to be countenanced."

"That was very wise of you, very wise indeed," Gimli asserted. "For my companions and I did indeed have the very good fortune to meet her, though for far too brief a time. And I can tell you that no fairer creature ever walked this earth than the Lady of the Golden Wood." With that the dwarf became silent, his face positively rapturous as he recalled his short but remarkable encounter with Galadriel. The fingers of one of his hands caressed a locket beneath his shirt, where he still kept her most precious gift to him: three strands of her lovely golden hair.

The rough-hewn Ranger's grim features briefly brightened into an uncharacteristic grin as he contemplated the paradox of a dwarf who had not only befriended one elf, but had evidently fallen in love--as courtly as the emotion might be--with another. "She must have been remarkable indeed, to sway the stout heart of a dwarf," he remarked.

"Ah!" Gimli declared, stirring from his brief reverie and turning in his saddle towards Evandor. "You think we dwarves are incapable of courtly love, do ye, lad?"

"I never..." Evandor began to say, but Gimli interrupted him.

"Bah! Such a fallacious belief probably springs from that ridiculous notion that there are no dwarf women. Dwarves are _great_ romantics!" Gimli asserted. "Durin himself composed canto after canto of love poetry! To this day, we etch verses from it into our finest metalwork! Its cadences would stir the most hard-hearted of men, even one such as yourself, to tears, I guarantee!"

"You think me hard-hearted, do you, Master Dwarf?" Evandor asked. Merry pricked up his ears; he thought he heard the faintest tremor of emotion shaking the Ranger's usual flat tone.

"Well, suffice it to say you're not the cheeriest companion I've ever had on a trip," Gimli remarked. He stole a glance at the dour Ranger. "Tell me, lad... have you ever been in love?"

Instead of answering, Evandor only turned in his saddle and stared hard at Gimli for several moments. The dwarf would later swear he saw the briefest flash of deep sorrow in those normally ice-cold cobalt eyes. Gimli knew he could, at times, be tactless, and he had the impression he had struck far too close to home for his companion's comfort; he was about to apologize when Evandor turned from him and spoke as if the Dwarf had not said a word.

"We should hurry," Evandor said flatly. "There is a ford ahead, and not a well-known one, for it is deep and can be treacherous in the spring when the river is flushed with melted snow from the mountains. It should be more easily passable at this time of year, but I would prefer not to do so in the dark. Let us hasten our pace!"

With that, he urged his horse from a trot to a gallop, forcing his companions to follow suit.

"Was it something I said?" Gimli muttered sarcastically as he bounced uncomfortably in his saddle.

As they neared the river bank, the travellers slowed their steeds to a halt and dismounted. Once Merry and Pippin had been helped down from their shared saddle, Legolas and Evandor began shifting the saddlebags higher upon the horses so as to keep their contents dry while they all waded across the river, for the ford, they could see, was indeed quite deep, as Evandor had told them. He and Legolas, the tallest of the party, would be immersed nearly up to their necks, while Gimli and the Hobbits would have no choice but to stay atop the horses. They were preparing to enter the water when Legolas suddenly held up his hand.

"What is it, Legolas?" Merry asked.

"Shhh!" the elf brusquely shushed him to silence.

Evandor watched Legolas, his heavy brows knitting into a concerned frown at the sight of the obvious but uncharacteristic tension in the elf's slender body. Suddenly, the Ranger threw himself to the ground; he turned his head and pressed one ear against the earth, listening intently.

"Someone approaches," he murmured. "Riders. A dozen, maybe more. And..."

"And what?" Pippin asked nervously.

"They're not riding horses," Legolas said, his eyes narrowed as they looked southwards.

"That's ridiculous!" Pippin said. "What else would someone ride if not horses?"

As suddenly as he'd dropped to the ground, Evandor rose and pulled his bow and quiver of arrows from his saddle. Legolas did the same, while Gimli grabbed his battle-axe from his own horse. They all turned and faced south, their bodies tense and bracing for battle.

"What is it?" Merry demanded, his eyes widening at his companions' obvious agitation. "What, or who, is approaching us?"

"Wargs," Gimli growled as he fingered his axe handle and bounced on the balls of his feet in anticipation of battle.

"Wargs!" Merry exclaimed, and glanced nervously at Pippin. Both of the hobbits had heard of the huge, wolf-like beasts that some orcs had mastered and rode, but unlike Gimli, Legolas, and Aragorn, they had never encountered the vile, murderous creatures.

"Could we not cross the river to get away?" Pippin asked. Though stout-hearted beyond his size and reluctant to shrink from a fight, even Pippin could gather that they were outnumbered, if Evandor's estimation of the approaching pack's numbers was correct. Given the tracking skills Evandor had displayed thus far on their journey, as befit a Ranger, he had no doubt that it was.

As if in answer, Merry suddenly heard a dull thumping, as of several paws running across the earth towards them. He heard a _yip_ followed by a snarl and a brief howl in response.

"There's no time," Legolas said. "They are almost upon us. Draw your weapons!" he urged the hobbits, who immediately drew forth their elvish daggers, though both Merry and Pippin wondered what good their small blades would do against such large, fearsome beasts.

Just a few paces ahead of them, the verdant green foliage of Lórien suddenly parted as several large, savage-looking beasts sprang forth from its cover. As large as horses they were, and dun was the colour of their short, shaggy coats. Their mouths were broad and lined with razor-sharp fangs; their eyes were small and beady and looked upon all living things as prey. On their broad backs each warg bore an orc, who controlled his vicious steed by reins fastened to a large, spiked collar that hung about the beast's thick neck. The pack paused for just a moment as they emerged from the forest; each warg snuffed the air as it assessed the small group that barred their path. The orcs riding them sneered at the tiny band who stood in their way.

Legolas quickly counted eighteen of the hideous beasts. That the vile wargs and their hideous riders had desecrated the forest of Lórien roused him to anger as few things in this world could. Had Celeborn and Galadriel and their people still dwelled in the Golden Wood, the pack would not have survived their first few minutes in the forest. But Galadriel had departed for the Undying Lands, and her former realm stood defenseless... that is, save for this one Silvan Elf and his companions.

The son of Thranduil did not hesitate. Before the warg riders could urge their brutish steeds to charge, his bowstring sang, and a warg wailed in pain as an arrow pierced one of its murderous eyes. Evandor let his arrow fly almost as quickly and nearly as accurately as the elf's, striking another warg in its sensitive snout and making it whirl in pain and throw its rider. As the two bowmen drew their next arrows from their quivers, the orcs astride the remaining wargs rallied and charged.

The horses whinnied and stamped their legs in fright; all of them ran into the river ford, save for Evandor's coal-black steed, who remained a mere two steps behind his master. Gimli roared and shook his battle-axe as the great beasts thundered towards them. Legolas got off another shot, felling yet another warg; then another, equally effective. Evandor managed one more shot which caught one of the riders square in the chest, sending him tumbling to the ground to be crushed beneath the heavy paws of the beasts that followed his own; the warg he was riding, however, kept on coming. Evandor dropped his bow and drew his sword.

The hobbits braced themselves as the great beasts approached. Suddenly, Merry was reminded of the charge of the Mûmakil during the battle upon the Pelennor Fields, and his memory of the Rohirrim's battle tactics, especially those of Lady Eowyn, gave him an idea.

"Pippin!" he shouted just when the Wargs were nearly upon them. "Get down! Try to let them run over you, and slash at their bellies and legs!"

As soon as he finished speaking, the snarling wargs were upon them. Legolas nimbly dodged them; he pulled a long dagger from a scabbard upon his belt and prepared to attack the beasts and their riders. Gimli bellowed a dwarvish war cry and swung his battle-axe, felling one of the beasts immediately. Evandor pivoted and narrowly evaded one of the beasts; when its head turned to bite at him with its great jaws, he swung down with his broadsword and decapitated the creature with a single blow. Pippin, meanwhile, followed Merry's advice. He rolled beneath one of the wargs and swung his dagger upwards; he cut both the beast's pale white underbelly and was rewarded with the sound of its cry of agony as it collapsed behind him. Merry managed to scuttle out of the way of another warg, which did not seem to even notice the little hobbit in the tall grass, and slashed at its hind leg as it passed. The warg snarled in pain, then fell and rolled, crushing its rider beneath its great weight.

But ten of the wargs remained, and the band opposing them were few. Legolas found himself constantly dodging four of the beasts, keeping him too busy to be able to attack. Gimli and Evandor stood back to back, using their weapons to desperately hold four more wargs and their riders at bay. The warg riders chortled, feeling confident despite their losses. All they had to do was wait until these troublesome interlopers tired or made a mistake, then their great, vicious beasts would make short work of them.

Meanwhile, two of the remaining riders had realized that the hobbits were hidden in the long grass, and directed their steeds to sniff them out and kill them. Once in the grass, one of the wargs snarled when it uncovered Merry as he cowered beneath the green foliage. Its great jaws opened, and the hobbit shut his eyes and braced himself for the terrible snap that would surely follow. Instead, he heard a terrible _crack_, then a loud yelp as the warg that loomed above him staggered away from him in pain. He opened his eyes and saw Evandor's great black horse, Nahar, near him, his rear hooves lowering from the powerful kick he had administered to the warg. The warg staggered, dazed, as blood ran from its damaged temple. The beast's rider snarled and raised a spear, but Nahar was too quick for him. The war horse lashed out with his rear hooves yet again, and the orc flew from his warg's back with a squeal of pain. Another kick, and the warg collapsed as well.

The horse's valour drew the attention of the other warg and its rider, who were hunting for Pippin. The orc yanked on his steed's leather reins.

"Leave that rat in the grass!" the warg rider shouted at the beast. "Get after that meddlesome horse, you worthless fleabag!"

The warg snarled and turned, then ran towards Nahar. The war horse saw its approach, whinnied angrily, and stamped its front hooves. When the warg drew near, its jaw open and its teeth gnashing, Evandor's horse reared up and lashed out at the beast with his front hooves. One of them caught the warg on its sensitive nose, sending the beast cringing backwards. The orc astride the warg's back shouted at it angrily and kicked its ribs viciously, urging it to attack. Snarling, its eyes narrowed, the warg coiled its great muscles and prepared to pounce while Nahar stamped his hooves, tossed his head majestically, and whinnied his challenge.

The warg jumped. Nahar again reared up and lashed at the beast's head with his hooves. He managed to gouge at one of the warg's eyes, but the beast was hurtling through mid-air and collided with the horse. Both animals tumbled, rolling in the grass, their limbs flailing angrily at one another. Merry barely managed to get out of the way, narrowly evading injury or death. Nahar fought valiantly, but the warg had teeth and claws to the horse's hooves. The warg clawed at the horse's flanks, drawing blood. Then, seeking to avenge the injuries the horse had done, the warg found an opening and its great jaws tore at the poor horse's chest. Nahar bellowed in pain and anger, his powerful legs bucking uselessly as the warg's teeth tore at his flesh.

"NO!!" Merry cried from where he lay in the grass. The hobbit may not have been able to bring himself to trust Evandor, but the Ranger's horse had just saved his life, and was now paying a terrible price for it. He still held his elvish dagger in his hands; he ran, then leapt. In a flash, he was on the warg's back, behind the orc riding him, who did not even notice the hobbit, so intent was he on having his charge kill the brave war horse. Merry stabbed forward with his blade and the warg rider bellowed in pain. He reached behind him awkwardly, but the nimble little hobbit ducked and evaded his reach. He stabbed the orc rapidly and repeatedly; the vicious creature hissed in pain as the elvish blade burned him with each stab into his flesh.

Pippin, watching from a few paces away, saw his friend's brave leap and instinctively sought to join him. Evandor's valiant horse had, in a way, saved him as well. He ran and jumped onto the warg's back just as the orc's dying body slid off of it. Together, Pippin and Merry raised their daggers and repeatedly brought them down into the hideous beast's great neck. The warg roared and reared back, seeking to throw the stinging assailants from its back, but the hobbits, with strength greater than a casual glance would suggest they possessed, kept hold of the beast's fur and continued their assault, especially when they saw they had succeeded in drawing the warg away from Nahar.

Evandor could do nothing to help his noble horse, had he even been aware of the terrible attack it had endured. He and Gimli were still surrounded by wargs; only his sword and the dwarf's axe kept them from attacking, and he knew they could not hold the beasts off forever. He stole a quick glance at Legolas, but quickly saw the elf was unable to assist them, busy as he was dodging the four wargs worrying him. The Ranger uttered a curse beneath his breath and tried desperately to think of a tactic that would allow them to overcome their attackers. He could think of nothing, and despaired to think that he would die here this day, so close to his goal, yet still so far away.

All around him, the huge wargs growled viciously. The beasts then coiled the thick muscles in their great legs, preparing to pounce upon their prey and finish them off.

* * *


	7. A Timely Arrival

**Into the East**

_A Lord of the Rings fanfic by Sisiutil_

* * *

**Chapter 7: A Timely Arrival**

Suddenly, the wargs drew back, just as they seemed about to pounce. The huge beasts turned their heads towards the great forest of Lórien; their great wolvish ears had apparently detected something approaching from within it. Their riders' attention was suddenly drawn there as well; the orcs gazed wide-eyed at the forest, then nervously at one another. Before Legolas, Gimli, and Evandor could take advantage of their foes' distracted attention, the dense foliage of the forest parted again, and from within it burst a host of over two dozen horses and riders.

The riders carried spears, their gleaming points held forward towards their opponents. Swords in scabbards slapped against their thighs as they rode. Helmets covered their heads and face shields obscured their features, but each rider's long golden hair flowed from beneath each helmet to shine in the setting sun and fly behind them as they rode. Many of the riders carried shields that bore the image of a white horse galloping upon a dark green field beneath a golden sun; one of the riders carried a banner emblazoned with the same image.

"Riders of Rohan!" Legolas exclaimed, a smile of exultation and relief appearing on his lips.

The Rohirrim wasted no time. As they emerged from the forest, they immediately urged their steeds to a full gallop. They raised their swords and spears and charged at the wargs, wailing a terrible, high-pitched battle-cry that nevertheless sounded like the sweetest music to the ears of the hobbits and their three companions. The warg riders attempted to control their beasts, which were clearly torn between conflicting instincts to fight or to flee.

Within mere moments, the horses were upon the wargs, and though the great furry beasts snarled and roared and lashed out with their teeth and their claws, the Rohirrim overwhelmed them. Spears stabbed deep into the beasts' hides, while swords slashed at their hapless masters. One rider of Rohan in particular, seemingly the group's leader, fought valiantly, quickly slaying two of the wargs and their riders that had been worrying Evandor and Gimli, all the while shouting orders at the other Rohirrim. The wolf-like cries of the wargs filled the air as the horse-masters of Rohan lived up to their fearsome reputation.

With the tables turned, Legolas, Gimli, and Evandor were able to attack the foes who had, moments before, had the upper hand. Broadsword, bow, and battle-axe made short work of the few wargs and their riders that the Rohirrim did not kill. Soon, it was over. Legolas and Evandor stood breathing heavily amidst the many dead and dying wargs and orcs, while the riders of Rohan gathered around them. Merry and Pippin ran over to join their companions.

"Where is Gimli?" Legolas asked, glancing about with concern. "GIMLI!" he shouted.

"Over here!" the dwarf's strained voice called out. Legolas ran towards his voice, followed by Evandor and the hobbits. They found the Dwarf, his legs and lower torso pinned beneath a warg carcass. "Why do I always end up beneath one of these great smelly things?!" Gimli growled as his friends struggled to lift the warg off of him. He grunted when his legs were free, then scrambled out awkwardly from beneath the dead beast and rose awkwardly to his feet, brushing coarse warg fur off of his breeches.

"Are you any of you injured?" the lead rider asked of them.

Evandor glanced quickly at his four companions, all of whom nodded to him. "No," he answered, "thanks to you Rohirrim..."

The Ranger's voice trailed off as he suddenly realized that the voice that had addressed him a moment before did not belong to a man. He looked up suddenly at the leader of the riders and noticed that though the custom of the Rohirrim was to wear beards, this rider's face was clean and smooth. In addition, the Rohirrim's frame was far too slender for that of a grown man. _A youth...? _the Ranger thought, but then the rider resolved the mystery for him.

The leader of the Rohirrim reached up and pulled off her helmet. She gave her head a shake, and her long, reddish-blond hair danced around her slender face. Thin dark brows arched over her emerald-green eyes; her lips, the lower fuller than the one above it, curled into an amused smile. Her breast plate, the others could now see, had a convex curve over her upper chest, and her breeches accommodated the shapely curve of her slender but decidedly feminine hips. Evandor's brows rose, and stayed high on his forehead as he glanced at the other riders and quickly realized that they were all women as well.

"You look astonished, Ranger of the north," the lead rider said, perceptively discerning his identity from his dress, speech, and manner. "I would have thought your kind had seen too much in their travels to be surprised by anything."

"Evidently not," Evandor replied, his brows still raised.

"What's this?" Gimli said. "A unit of cavalry, composed entirely of women? I've never seen such a thing, nor heard of it!"

"Yes you have, Gimli!" Pippin suddenly said. "Remember Lady Éowyn of Rohan? She rode in battle, and most valiantly, as Merry here can attest!"

It was now the rider's turn to be surprised. Her green eyes widened at the hobbit's words, and her companions all glanced at one another, equally startled. In a heartbeat, their leader had dismounted and strode towards the five companions.

"You know Lady Éowyn?" she asked of Pippin, her eyes still wide.

"_Know_ her?" Pippin said, puffing up his chest and jabbing a thumb in Merry's direction. "Why, my friend here helped her slay the Witch King himself!" The declaration, though true, made his fellow hobbit shift his weight uncomfortably in embarrassment.

The rider gasped, then her mouth hung open in shock as she now gazed upon Merry. Then her surprise turned to delight, and she knelt before the blond-haired hobbit as her lips curled into a broad smile. "You are Meriadoc Brandybuck, Squire of Rohan?" she said.

"Er, well, yes, I am," Merry said humbly, his humble discomfiture evident in his voice.

"We are most honoured!" the rider declared, then knelt bowed her head. To Merry's steadily-increasing embarrassment, all the riders dismounted, knelt down, and bowed their heads to him as well.

"Oh, well, that's... really not necessary!" Merry said, laughing uncomfortably. "Er, please... all of you... get up, please." He glanced over his shoulders at his companions; Gimli and Legolas were looking at him with amusement, but no small amount of pride as well, while Pippin was positively puffed up with the latter emotion. Evandor was also watching him, but his expression was unreadable. "Er," Merry stammered, turning again to the young woman who led these formidable riders, "to whom do I have the honour of speaking?"

"Oh!" the lead rider said, her head rising suddenly and a slight blush appearing in her cheeks. She quickly stood up. "How rude of me! Please forgive me, Master Brandybuck! I am Lady Anoline of Rohan, cousin to King Eomer, _and_ to the Lady Éowyn ," she said, uttering the latter name with special reverence, "by way of the King's recent marriage. My sisters and I," she continued, indicating her riding companions, "call ourselves the Éowiim, for the lady you fought beside is our inspiration and our patron."

"Indeed!" Merry said, smiling now. "I have very fond memories of Lady Éowyn , and of King Éomer. But..." he paused, as if afraid to give offense; "forgive me, but I recall that King Éomer did not approve of his sister's participation in battle. I am somewhat surprised that he would countenance an entire cavalry unit comprised of women, despite your obvious skills in warcraft."

As he spoke, Anoline's eyes lowered, and several of her companions shifted their weight uncomfortably.

"King Éomer... does not approve of us," Anoline said quietly. "He tolerates our existence, I suspect, as an indulgence towards his beloved sister." The young woman drew a deep breath and raised her head, regaining some of her pride. "He is a great man. But that does not mean he is always right. We intend to prove our worth to him, and to Rohan, and to show that the women of our country may protect their beloved homeland as ably as her men."

"Is that why you are so far from your homeland?" Evandor asked, his cobalt blue eyes narrowed sharply. "Have you been banished, perhaps, or are you merely seeking adventure wherever you can find it?"

Anoline's green eyes suddenly blazed with an inner fire at the Ranger's provocative questions. "We most certainly have _not _been banished!" she replied sharply. "As for these despicable wargs and their riders," she said, casting a disdainful glance at the corpses of the creatures around them, "they attacked one of our villages, just south of Fangorn Forest, on the northern bank of the River Entwash, five days ago. They left no one alive there--not man, woman, nor child. We have pursued them day and night to avenge our fallen people, and to prevent them from killing anyone else... such as yourselves, I might point out!"

The corners of Evandor's mouth twitched upwards slightly beneath his beard. He bowed his head. "Forgive me," he said, then raised his eyes to meet Anoline's steady gaze. "I meant no offense and regret if any was taken. My companions and I are most grateful to you for your timely rescue. Had you not intervened I fear we may have fallen before these vile creatures."

Anoline regarded him for a moment, then smiled slightly and inclined her head. "Well spoken, Ranger of the north," she said graciously. "You are most welcome." A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth and she regarded the dark-featured man shrewdly. "I see that it is true, what they say about Rangers," she said.

"What is that?" Evandor asked gruffly, one heavy brow raised.

"That you like to test the mettle of those you encounter, in one fashion or another," she replied, raising one of her own thin, fair brows. Evandor grunted, which Lady Anoline interpreted as tacit agreement with her assertion.

"I am Evandor, son of Ethanor," the Ranger said, properly introducing himself. "My companion Meriadoc Brandybuck you already know," he said. "This is his friend Peregrin Took, along with Legolas Greenleaf of the Silvan Elves, and Gimli, son of Glóin, of the great dwarf house of Durin."

Anoline bowed to each of them politely even as her eyes grew wide again. "My word," she whispered reverently. "Four of the members of the Fellowship of the Ring!" she declared. "We are honoured indeed!" She gasped softly as a sudden realization occurred to her. "Tell me," she said, her green eyes ablaze with excitement, "you are on a quest of some type, are you not?"

"Indeed," Evandor acknowledged, though his tone was both cagey and impatient. "One of great import, and we must be on our way. We had intended to lead our horses across the ford before dark," he said, glancing up at the sky, which was now darkening towards nightfall.

"It seems your horses are well ahead of you there," Anoline said in an amused voice, looking across the river, where Merry and Pippin's steed Tom stood patiently waiting beside the two horses belonging to Legolas and Gimli.

Evandor followed her gaze and nodded, then frowned. "That's strange," he said. "Where is Nahar?" He glanced about quickly, then looked at Legolas, then Gimli, who only looked back at him with blank stares. Evandor then turned his eyes downwards, towards Merry. "Did you see..." he began to ask, but was brought short by the pained expression on the hobbit's face.

"I'm sorry, Evandor," he murmured, then glanced back towards the grassy meadow, where the party could discern the flank of a black horse laying upon the ground, next to the corpse of a warg.

"Oh no," Evandor said, his face blanching beneath his dark hair and beard. He sprinted away from his companions, running across the field towards his horse. His companions followed, as did Anoline. The other female Rohirrim remained a respectful and sorrowful distance away. The Ranger dropped to his knees beside his fallen horse. He lifted the beast's great head into his lap and stroked it; the dying horse grunted softly in recognition of his master's presence and tender touch. Evandor's broad shoulders sagged as he glanced at the terrible wounds the warg had inflicted before the hobbits had finally brought the beast down.

"He... saved our lives," Merry said quietly from where he stood behind the Ranger. "I've... never seen a horse fight like that... so ably and bravely," he added.

"As I trained him to do," Evandor murmured, his voice strained, "since he was a foal." He stroked the horse's neck affectionately. "To protect those dear to me..." he added, his voice barely louder than a whisper, but Merry heard it nonetheless.

Within moments, the horse uttered a great sigh, then breathed no more. Gimli reached out to grip the Ranger's shoulder in sympathy, but Evandor suddenly rose to his feet and strode away from his horse, towards the bank of the River Anduin. There, with his hands clenched into fists at his sides, he threw back his head and roared his grief and rage at the darkening sky above.

Lady Anoline, wholly understanding the bond that exists between horse and rider, watched him and blinked away tears. "He mourns for his steed like a Rider of Rohan would," she said softly.

Gimli, standing beside her, shook his head sadly. "It's more than just the death of his horse that weighs upon him," he said. Anoline glanced at the dwarf expectantly, but Gimli only shrugged. "Not that he's told any of us what troubles him so. But I'd wager he's lost more than just this noble beast, lass."

Evandor stood silently beside the river for several moments, his arms hanging limply at his sides, his head bowed down over his broad chest. Then he suddenly turned and strode back towards his companions. In his cobalt blue eyes, Merry once again saw the obsessed determination that seemed to be pushing the Ranger on towards his goal--whatever the cost to those around him.

"We must be on our way," Evandor said grimly. "We must cross the river before the light completely fades and make camp on the other side. Lady Anoline, I regret to impose upon you further, but... I have need of a horse." The Ranger's voice caught, but he coughed away his momentary lapse of emotional control. "If you have any to spare..."

"Indeed we do," the shield-maiden of Rohan said sympathetically. "One of our sisters fell in a previous clash with the wargs, but her mount was unscathed."

"I cannot offer sufficient recompense..." Evandor began to say, shaking his head, his eyes downcast.

"None is required," Anoline said, "provided you fulfill one condition."

Evandor raised his head to look at her. "Name it."

"Take us with you," she said eagerly, her green eyes blazing yet again. Evandor's heavy brows rose in surprise. He sighed, then began to shake his head. "Please!" Anoline said, placing her hand upon his arm and moving in close to him. "You must understand," she said in a low murmur only intended for his ears, "your companions have performed a great service to all of Middle-Earth, and to Rohan in particular! I and my people owe them a great debt. If we can accompany you on your quest, if we can be of service to them and to you, in _any_ way, we would consider part of that debt repaid!"

"You just saved my companions' lives," Evandor said in his usual flat tone. "Do you not consider your debt repaid?'

"Not even close," Anoline said. She leaned in even closer to Evandor and whispered fervently. "The elf and the dwarf fought the Uruk-Hai on the ramparts at Helm's Deep while I trembled in the caves below with my mother and younger sisters," she said. "Please give me this opportunity to stand _beside_ them instead of cowering _behind_ them!"

"You do not even know the purpose of our quest," Evandor said, smiling sadly at the young woman.

"I do not need to," she asserted. "With nearly half of the legendary Fellowship of the Ring in its service, the cause cannot be other than noble and just."

Evandor studied the eager young woman in silence for a moment, his cobalt eyes narrowed appraisingly. He eventually sighed and then removed her hand from his arm. "Very well. But you must promise to obey my commands without question," he said gruffly, staring at her from beneath his heavy brows.

"Agreed," she said eagerly.

"I have another condition," he continued. "Our mission requires stealth. I will accept your pledge of service, but _only_ yours. Your companions must remain behind, lest they alert the enemy to our intentions through sheer numbers alone."

"I..." Anoline said, balking at the request. She glanced over her shoulder at her fellow riders, then back to the stern visage of the Ranger, his expression alone indicating that this condition was not negotiable. It was a hard demand her made of her; the Éowiim had the support of none of their countrymen save one another, and, of course, their heroine and patron. They had each solemnly pledged to live, fight, and die together. But accompanying these legendary figures on a noble quest was too great an opportunity for the young woman to resist, so powerful was her desire to walk in the footsteps of her heroine, and to prove her worth to her king. With great regret, Anoline nodded her assent to Evandor's demand. "Very well," she reluctantly agreed, then lifted her chin proudly. "My sisters shall remain behind. But before they depart without me for our homeland, they shall give your noble horse a proper burial, as would befit a steed of Rohan itself."

Evandor blinked, then nodded graciously. His tone softened when he spoke. "Thank you, Lady Anoline--I cannot tell you how much that means to me. Nahar served me well for many years..." His voice trailed off as his eyes, normally so cold, took on a saddened cast and glanced towards his fallen steed. The young horsewoman's heart went out to the tall, mysterious man she had just pledged to follow and obey. But before she could utter some words of solace, the Ranger's expression hardened. He took a deep breath and then regarded her intently. "You must hurry," he said, his eyes cold and his voice stern once again. "Fetch your own horse, and the one you have so generously offered to me, and bid your companions farewell. We must ford the river before night falls. When we make camp upon the far river bank, I will tell you the details of our mission."

Evandor turned from her and strode towards the river bank, urging his companions to join him.

Merry, standing beside Lady Anoline, glanced up at the young female warrior. He could see that her lovely face was alight with excitement as she contemplated the adventure before them. Merry, having embarked upon and barely survived a much greater adventure, though this one was proving no less dangerous, sighed heavily. He was no longer young enough, and had lost too many of those that he had loved, to regard their endeavour with anything resembling the young horsewoman's alacrity.

"Welcome to our quest, lady of Rohan," he said ruefully. His words and especially his sombre tone drew her surprised gaze to him. "I hope you survive the experience..."

* * *


	8. Dol Guldur

**Into the East**

_A Lord of the Rings fanfic by Sisiutil_

* * *

**Chapter 8: Dol Guldur**

That night, once they had crossed the river, the party built a roaring fire, for the Anduin's waters were colder now in mid-autumn and wading through them had soaked their clothing and chilled their bones. When Lady Anoline heard of the rising threat of Prince Dredmor, the rebuilding of Dol Guldur, and of Sauron's own seeing stone at the centre of it all, she felt colder still, despite her proximity to the fire.

"This is dark news you bear," she said, her green eyes wide with concern as the contemplated the implications of what the Ranger had told her. "If he gathers an army and marches south to Gondor, the Riddermark will lay in his path, and my people will once again endure pillaging, desolation, and death." She shook her head slowly. "I cannot allow that to happen!" she whispered fervently, then turned to Evandor, a fierce gaze in her emerald eyes. "I was committed to your cause before based only upon the nobility the participants. Now that I know the details, my resolve to assist you is strengthened ten-fold."

"As glad as I am to hear that," Evandor said, "it is my sincere hope that little be required of you, or I, or of Legolas or Gimli once we arrive at the enemy's stronghold. The key task, the theft of the Palantir, will be performed by the hobbits," he said with a nod towards Merry and Pippin.

The two hobbits were relaxing with a pipeful each of Longbottom leaf, but Merry's comfortable mood dissipated as Evandor spoke of him and his friend. For his part, Pippin merely grew silent, as he always did when the subject of the seeing stone came up.

"I still do not understand how and why you expect us to steal the seeing stone," Merry said, "not that we won't strive to our utmost. But size alone does not a good burglar make."

"In this case, size is _crucial_," Evandor said, but then continued to frustrated Merry by saying no more regarding how, exactly, the hobbits' size was to come into play. Instead, he turned from them and glanced solemnly at the fire. "Enjoy the warmth of this blaze while you can, all of you. Tomorrow we shall reach Mirkwood Forest, and from that point on we must consider ourselves to be in enemy territory, and must take care to move as stealthily as possible. This is the last fire we will enjoy until our mission is complete."

Though his words made sense, Merry, Pippin, and Gimli looked at the fire morosely.

"Trudging through a dank, dark forest with no light or warmth," Gimli muttered. "A nightmare for a dwarf! If I had the choice, I'd rather be back on the ramparts of Helm's Deep."

"Cheer yourself, my friend," Legolas said. "You forget that forests are beloved of we elves, and though Mirkwood is my home, I have too rarely explored its southern reaches. Though our path may be treacherous because of the presence of the enemy, I for one am looking forward to this last leg of our journey. I shall show you how the concealment provided by the forest can be our closest ally."

"Fair enough, lad," Gimli said, favouring the handsome elf with a nod and a smile, even though his reservations remained.

"We should get some rest," Evandor said, cutting the conversation short. "We must stay off the main pathways and avoid any sentries, so our progress will be slow and demand our constant vigilance." He used a stick to spread out the blazing wood on the fire until only hot, crackling embers remained. Then he marched off to his bedroll, and his companions soon followed.

* * *

The group made slow progress through the Vales of Anduin, for while the land was not densely populated, several farms and two villages lay in their path, and Evandor maintained that they could not risk being spotted since Prince Dredmor was sure to have spies amongst the local populace. So they kept to the low places--tracks between hills, stream beds, and the like, though thickets of bushes often choked those paths and slowed their progress. Yet the determined Ranger pressed them on, and by nightfall, they were within a bowshot of Mirkwood.

One last farm lay at the edge of the great forest, and to the party's surprise, Evandor led them towards it--or at least, towards a large stable at one corner of the farm's field.

"I thought we were trying to stay out of sight," Merry reminded him.

"We are," Evandor replied. "This is the only farmhouse for several miles. The husband and wife who work these fields are known to me. They are trustworthy."

Merry glanced at Legolas, then leaned over in his saddle to whisper to his elf friend. "How can I believe _they're _trustworthy when I'm not sure I trust the man who tells me they are?"

"It seems we have little choice," Legolas whispered back. "But we shall take turns keeping watch tonight, Merry."

"Will you two quit your whispering?" Pippin hissed at both of them from his position on the saddle behind Merry. "It's irritating, not to mention highly suspicious!" Merry and Legolas could not help but smile at each other in reaction to the irony of that statement.

As darkness settled over the land, the six companions settled into the stables. Only one of the twelve stalls was occupied by a horse, leaving the others free--more than enough to accommodate the party of six and their five horses on the fresh, sweet-smelling hay that softened the dirt floor of the stalls. Anoline tended to her own horse with a curry comb, and then, driven by a Rohirrim's cultural imperative, she inspected the farmer's lone horse.

"His plough-horse is in very good condition for its age," she declared when she finished checking on the beast. "But I cannot understand why such a large stable is required to house a single horse."

"The rest were taken from him," Evandor replied, bitterness creeping into his voice. "I think you can guess by whom. Baird used to breed horses; now he struggles to feed his family with this one poor nag to till his fields. Many of the other good people of the Vales of Anduin have suffered in similar ways. He has even..." The Ranger's voice caught, and he took a deep breath and a moment to collect himself. "The sooner the stain of Prince Dredmor is removed from these lands, the better for all," he said, his voice ripe with anger.

His companions said nothing in response; the vehemence of his tone surprised them, as did the length of his utterance, which constituted a speech from the usually-taciturn Ranger. Evidently, Merry surmised, as they grew nearer to his foe, so too did Evandor's enmity towards the enemy likewise grow. He spread out his bedroll, laid out upon it, and despite his misgivings was soon fast asleep, for the day had been long and their travel as arduous as it had been in the high passes of the Misty Mountains.

Early the next morning, as Anoline arose and moved to prepare her horse for the day, Evandor surprised them yet again.

"Do not bother with the horses," he said. "They will remain here. We travel the rest of the way on foot."

Anoline gaped at him, her lovely features stricken with the agonizing thought of being separated from her beloved steed. No rider of Rohan felt comfortable venturing into a potential battle without a horse. "Surely that is not necessary!" she exclaimed. "Our progress yesterday was slow enough with the horses. Without them..."

"...we shall be more easily concealed and less easily spotted by the eyes of Dredmor's sentries," Evandor said firmly. "The horses stay here."

"But..." Anoline began to say.

Evandor turned suddenly and stepped towards her, glaring at her from beneath his dark, heavy brows. "I seem to recall you promising to _obey_ my commands," he growled at her.

For a moment, Anoline looked as though she'd been slapped. Her green eyes flared with shock, then anger, but only for a moment. She was a noblewoman of Rohan, and her word was her bond. Reminded of this, however brusquely, she lowered her eyes and nodded. "Very well," she said. "If you think it necessary..."

"I do," Evandor said.

Anoline raised her eyes to glance at him again, but her gaze did not rest long upon his stern visage. She nodded briefly yet again, then turned to look at her horse, and the pain of her separation from the animal was plain upon her face.

This exhibition of her feelings evidently penetrated Evandor's stern mood--perhaps because he was reminded of his own recent loss of a valued steed. His expression softened, as did his tone. "Do not worry, Lady Anoline," he said. "You have seen for yourself that Baird takes good care of his remaining horse, and he will take good care of ours, for he loves these beasts and esteems them above all others. I have known him many years and can vouch for his reliability. Your horse could not be in better hands were he resting by the King's throne in the golden hall at Edoras."

Anoline turned to him once again, and this time she favoured the Ranger with a grateful smile. "Thank you for your words of reassurance, Evandor," she said. "Felaróf has been with me since the end of the war, when my sisters and I took up the cause of protecting our homeland from the vicious remnants of Sauron's army. He is as dear to me as my own kin. However, if you give me your word, as a Ranger and one of the Dúnedain that he will be well cared for, then I shall be content to leave him here."

"I do, and he will," Evandor assured her. She reached out to touch his arm in thanks, but he had already turned to finish his preparations for their departure. Anoline turned away to do likewise, but she paused several times as she packed her few belongings to cast a glance at the tall, mysterious Ranger.

Merry was also watching Evandor; the hobbit was becoming accustomed to keeping one suspicious eye on their expedition's leader. He noticed that Evandor had retrieved his second, lighter sword from his saddle and had strapped its scabbard about his waist so the sword hung next to his right leg. Not for the first time, Merry wondered why Evandor carried the sword with him when his larger, heavier broadsword appeared to be a most formidable weapon, and one that required both its wielder's hands upon its hilt, leaving none free for a second sword. Merry sighed and gave a barely perceptible shrug as he concluded it was just one more mystery about the man that he may never solve.

The sun was still rising behind the tall trees of Mirkwood Forest when the six companions stealthily entered the woods. The trees of the old forest towered above them, and the air was rich with the scent of maple, pine, and the rich loam created by their discarded, decaying leaves and needles. They marched in silence, using the thick trunks of the trees for cover, watching and listening carefully for sentries who could betray their approach. Legolas took the lead, utilizing his sharp elvish senses to detect any sign of the enemy.

Overhead, through the occasional break in the tree canopy, the party could see dark clouds forming. The air began to cool, and Legolas could smell moisture forming in the air. "It will rain before the day is out, and heavily," he said quietly.

"Just what we need," Gimli grumbled. "No horses, a long walk, few provisions left, and a bone-chilling soaking. If not for the promise of several orc necks eager to be chopped, I'd have stayed asleep in the stables."

Evandor turned to glare at the dwarf and hold a single finger to his lips, then turned to continue their long, silent voyage. Gimli glanced around, expecting to see orcs or men guarding the approach to Dol Guldur. When he saw none, he rolled his eyes and stifled a sigh.

For several hours they walked on without incident or sight of a living soul, and Legolas and Merry began to exchange silent, suspicious looks. Both of them wondered, as they moved closer to Dol Guldur and encountered none of Prince Dredmor's forces, if Evandor had sold them a pack of lies. And if he had, to what purpose was he drawing the party deep into Mirkwood? Yet they continued on.

Suddenly, Legolas stopped in his tracks, then moved silently behind the cover of a thick tree trunk. The rest of the party followed his lead and did likewise. Evandor crept over to the elf, his silent footfalls evidence of his many years as a Ranger, silently wandering and watching the northern wilderness. Legolas pointed ahead, then held up two fingers. Evandor nodded. Beside them stood Anoline, who had silently and eagerly drawn near them, her eyes straining to see what Legolas had spotted. Then she saw them: two orcs, walking along a narrow footpath between the trees, bushes, and ferns. She instinctively grasped the handle of her sword and began to pull it out of its scabbard. The sound of metal scraping against metal caught Evandor's attention; he quickly clasped Anoline's forearm to stop her. She looked at him in surprise; he glared at her and shook his head. Then they heard the conversation of the two orcs, and they pressed themselves tighter against the broad tree that was their hiding place as the orcs approached them.

"...bored out of my skull out 'ere!" they heard a low, snivelling voice declare from a distance. The words grew slightly louder as they were spoken, and the six companions heard the orcs' heavy footfalls carelessly rustling leaves and snapping twigs.

"Would you rather be breaking your back while those filthy Uruk flail their whips upon it?" a lower, rougher voice responded.

"I s'pose not," the first orc said morosely. "All this guarding and building... pah! When do we get to _kill _something?"

"Soon as that stinking ceremony's done," the second one said.

Merry frowned at that. _Ceremony? _he mouthed silently. What did _that_ mean? He glanced at Evandor, who was pressed against another, wider tree trunk with Legolas and Anoline, and saw that the Ranger's jaw was flexing as he ground his teeth, and his cobalt eyes were blazing with rage. _He_ knows what it means, Merry thought, and he's not happy about it--not that he'll tell us anything regarding it.

"Stupid men's nonsense!" the first orc spat. Then he paused when he heard thunder in the distance. "Oh, delightful. Ugh! I hate the rain here. It makes everything smell so... _clean_," he said, and the six companions listening could practically hear him shudder as he said the word with such distaste. "Not like those lovely grey storms we used to get in Mordor," he said wistfully. "All that ash and sulphur and smoke... I miss it, don't you?"

"No use getting homesick, you simpering fool," the second orc said uncharitably. He paused as he glanced up at the sky. "Pagh. Let's start heading back. There's nothing out here, and when that disgusting stuff begins to fall, no one will be out in it."

As they heard the two orcs turn and begin to plod back towards Dol Guldur, the party slowly emerged from their hiding places to stare after the distant, retreating foot soldiers of the enemy.

"I don't understand," Anoline murmured to Evandor, her tone fraught with annoyance. "Why didn't we just kill them?"

The Ranger sighed and then explained. "Those were sentries. They have to report back and be relieved. If they don't, they'll be missed, and that would make our enemy far more wary and watchful than we want them to be. They might even send out search parties into the surrounding woods."

"Oh. Of course," the young horsewoman said, blushing in embarrassment over how she had so obviously revealed her inexperience.

Evandor gave a low grunt, and the corners of his lips curled upwards ever so briefly--what Merry and Pippin had come to recognize as the dour Ranger's version of a smile. "There are more ways to defeat your enemy than with strength of arms in open battle, my young Rohirrim," he said. Though still abashed, Anoline glanced at him with an embarrassed smile on her lips and nodded.

Now that they had seen evidence of their proximity to their enemy, the group proceeded even more cautiously. They avoided the worn paths through the forest and kept to its wilder parts, making their way slowly and as silently as possible through the tree trunks and bushes. Overhead, the clouds grew darker still; periodically, a roll of thunder echoed through the forest. The smell of imminent rain was heavy in the air.

"Wonderful," Gimli grumbled. "Soon we'll be soaking wet, and chilled to the bone, no doubt!"

"I for one will be glad of the rain," Evandor said to his companions. "It will mask the sound of our approach, and will limit visibility. It should also drive some of the less disciplined sentries under cover. But do not despair, Master Dwarf; the tree canopy will provide some shelter from the wet."

"Not as much as a nice, warm cavern would," the dwarf muttered.

As if to fulfill the Ranger's wish, a short time later, the rain began to fall. At first, little of it penetrated the tops of the trees; but shortly, the rain grew heavier, and the upper branches of the trees became saturated, so the water began to pour down onto the forest floor below. The six companions pulled their hoods over their heads and made their way through the inclement weather towards their goal.

Night was falling when they reached the base of the hill that had once been called Amon Lanc. After Sauron had built his fortress upon its top, however, the hill had acquired the same name as the fortress: Dol Guldur. From a copse of bushes near the bottom of the hill, the six companions looked up through the rain at their objective. There, atop the hill, stood a fortress of stone, its walls high and seemingly impenetrable, the stone and mortar dark grey in the gloom of night and rain. Torches burned and sputtered atop the ramparts, and the dark form of sentries marched back and forth. Behind the walls, the group could see a tower rising; wooden scaffolding around its top indicated that it was still being constructed.

Evandor led the others through the bushes to a shallow notch in one side of the hill that led up to one side of the tower. Cautiously, the six companions crawled up the wet gully, keeping low so as to stay within its shadows. The rain soaked through their clothing to their skin, but they ignored the discomfort and pressed onwards. Merry reflected that Evandor had been correct about the rain; despite the chill and the damp, the hobbit was glad of it. Had the night been clear and the moon out, they would have been dangerously exposed.

At last they made it to the base of the fortress' outer wall. They pressed against it to avoid detection by the sentries above. Upon closer inspection, they could see that the wall had indeed been torn down nearly to the foundation; a new construction of heavy stones and mortar could be discerned, rising atop the ruined layer beneath it. Legolas and Merry glanced at one another; the suspicious hobbit shrugged at this further evidence as to the veracity of the Ranger's story.

"Keep your voices down," he advised them. "The rain will cover our voices partially, but we dare not risk detection."

"Begging your pardon, Evandor," Pippin said, his voice low, "but how do you plan on getting into the place? There are barely any handholds I can see, and the rain has made the wall slick!"

To his surprise, the Ranger favoured him with one of his rare grins. "Have you never heard the story of how Smaug, the dragon, was destroyed?" he asked in a low murmur.

"Of course!" Pippin answered quietly. "Frodo's uncle Bilbo was there when it happened! The dragon was covered in impenetrable scales, but he had one missing upon his chest, and an archer shot an arrow right into that spot to kill him."

Evandor nodded. "The seemingly-impenetrable walls of this new fortress have a similar point of weakness. Come."

He edged cautiously along the wall, and his companions followed him. Ahead, they could see a small bulge in the castle wall, resembling a small bastion or a buttress: a slight rounded formation that jutted out the merest amount from the flat wall, rising from near its base to its top. At the bottom of this bastion was another gulley. As they neared the base of the bulge in the stone wall, a foul stench filled their nostrils. The smell only confirmed the purpose of the bastion, which was no bastion at all, but a wall surrounding a hollow shaft. The shaft ended a few feet above the ground, just higher than Evandor's head, and was less than a sword's length in width.

"It's... a latrine," Pippin remarked dubiously.

"Aye, and one used heavily by orcs, if the stench is any indication," Gimli said, his nose wrinkling.

"It's the only way in," Evandor told them. "The other entrances are rarely opened, heavily fortified, and even more heavily guarded."

His companions eyed the high, narrow opening at the bottom of the latrine shaft hesitantly.

Legolas shook his head. "Slender as I am, I will not fit through that narrow entrance, Evandor," he said.

"I'm afraid the same goes for me," Anoline said, also looking doubtfully at the shaft.

"Well, you'd better not be expecting the sturdy girth of a dwarf to fit through that!" Gimli said.

As one, the four warriors turned to look at the two hobbits.

"Oh, no," Pippin said, his head shaking slowly. "Surely you don't expect us to crawl up that wretched, stinking shaft..."

"Why do you think I rode so far out of my way to bring you on this mission?" Evandor said quietly. "I would not risk a child, nor would one have the strength to climb up the shaft. The only creature in Middle-Earth that could accomplish this task, I knew, was a hobbit--especially the stalwart ones who had accompanied the Ring-Bearer on his quest. So I traveled night and day to find you and bring you here."

"So we could have the privilege of climbing up a _privy hole? _Oh, well, we're so very honoured!" Pippin said sarcastically, and Evandor gestured to him to keep his voice down, lest he be heard over the driving rain.

The Ranger then lowered himself to one knee and glowered at the hobbit, making him cringe. "As distasteful as you may find it, Master Hobbit, the success of our endeavour rests upon you accomplishing this one, simple task!" he hissed at Pippin. "You _must _do this!" The Ranger's eyes--usually so icy cold--were positively ablaze with determination, and Pippin once again saw the obsessive resolve in the Ranger that so discomfited his friend Merry. "Believe me when I say that I would do it myself if I could. But I cannot, so I turn to you."

Standing beside Pippin, Merry sighed and cast an appraising eye upon the bottom of the foul shaft. "So that's the plan, then?" he said to Evandor. "We shimmy up there, find the palantir, and come back down?"

"No," Evandor said, surprising him. "You must both ascend the shaft, yes. Then make your way to the battlements," he said, pointing to the crinolined stonework atop the fortress' outer wall, beside the top of the latrine shaft. "Lower a rope to us so that we can climb up after you."

"Wouldn't it be easier if you stay here while we..." Merry began to say, but Evandor interrupted him.

"NO," the Ranger said firmly, his eyes blazing with fiery determination. Merry took a surprised step back from him, and in response, Evandor seemed to make an effort to quell his passions. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes for a moment. "The seeing stone may be hard to find, and it is sure to be guarded," he said, "for Dredmor prizes it. You will need the rest of us to overcome its keepers." Merry nodded, accepting Evandor's explanation for the time being. "You will require a rope..." the Ranger said, reaching for his pack.

"We have one," Merry said, and drew his rope out of his own small pack, which he then pulled over his head so it hung off of his left shoulder.

Legolas smiled at the sight of the long, golden rope of elvish make. "Hithlain!" he whispered. "Is this the same rope that Galadriel bestowed upon Samwise?" he asked.

Pippin looked up at him and nodded. "Sam was good enough to loan it to us," he said, smiling. "On the condition that we bring it back, of course."

"...and with ourselves accompanying it," Merry added pointedly, staring at Evandor.

But his words and his meaningful glance were lost upon the Ranger, who was looking at the fine elven rope with admiration. He nodded with satisfaction. "Excellent," he said, then rose to his feet. "Come," he said to the two hobbits, "I will boost you up to the shaft. Make sure your daggers are well-sheathed so they do not make any noise against the stone walls."

"Wait just a moment," Pippin said, and pulled a kerchief out of his pocket. He tied the small patch of cloth around his head so that it covered his nose and mouth.

"Good idea," Merry muttered, his nose wrinkling as he once again breathed in the stench from the latrine. He pulled out a kerchief of his own and followed Merry's example so as to offer some meagre protection to his senses while he climbed the malodorous shaft.

Evandor bent down and took hold of Merry beneath the hobbit's arms and raised him up to the shaft's opening. The hobbit pressed his hands against the sides of the shaft and pressed himself upwards; once inside, he used his fur-topped feet in a similar fashion to maintain his position in the shaft.

"Are you managing it all right, Merry?" Pippin asked, looking upwards from where Evandor was holding him just below the shaft and his friend.

"It's slippery and it stinks to high heaven," Merry muttered downwards, "but if you press heard against the sides, you can climb."

"Try not to talk, both of you," Evandor advised them as Pippin scrambled up the shaft after Merry.

"And you might want to hurry, lads," Gimli said, "Lest some orc heed the call of nature while you're in there."

Upon hearing his words, Merry and Pippin stole a quick, panicked glance at one another in the dark, stinking shaft, and then started climbing as quickly as they could manage.

* * *


	9. A Theft and a Betrayal

**Into the East**

_A Lord of the Rings fanfic by Sisiutil_

* * *

**Chapter 9: A Theft and a Betrayal**

As the hobbits began their climb up the narrow shaft into the fortress of Dol Guldur, their four companions settled down against the outer wall of the castle to wait, though they did move away from the foul-smelling latrine. Fortunately the rain was washing away the malodorous waste, though it also soaked their skins and chilled them to the bone. As they sat in the dark upon the wet grass at the base of the fortress walls, Anoline began to shiver. Evandor noticed her discomfort and frowned in concern.

"You're cold," he said quietly.

"Of course!" the red-headed horsewoman replied while smiling at him ruefully. "But I tremble more out of anticipation than because of the damp. I... have not fought many battles," she admitted. "The few I have experienced were little more than skirmishes, really. And in all of them, I was on horseback, where any warrior of Rohan is infinitely more confident."

Evandor nodded knowingly. "I suspected as much," he said.

Anoline's slender brows creased into a puzzled frown. "And yet you let me accompany you?" she said.

The Ranger appeared to be lost in thought for a moment. He then spoke in a low murmur, his pale blue eyes staring out into the darkness of the rain-soaked night, as if into the distant mist of memory. "I was not at the Battle of Helm's Deep," he said. Anoline's frown deepened at the strange statement. "Word of Saruman's treachery and his attack upon Rohan did not reach we few remaining Dúnedain in time. We barely made the journey to Minas Tirith in time to assist at the battle there." He paused for a moment and drew a breath. "Long have I wondered how a mere three hundred Rohirrim withstood the assault of ten thousand Uruk-Hai."

Anoline shuddered involuntarily, not because of her damp clothes and soaked skin, but at the memory of that fateful battle. "Indeed, many of us did not survive that night," she said quietly. "My older brother, Arulain..." Her voice failed her as the memory tore at a wound that was far too easily opened, even after the years that had passed since. "I was not with him. I was trembling that night as well, in the caves behind the keep with the other women and the children. I swore to myself that if I survived, I would never be that helpless again." She turned her head to look at the Ranger, her green eyes shining with a fiery determination that seemed to reflect his own.

Evandor nodded sagely. "Even after witnessing the gallant charge of the Rohirrim at Pelennor, still I wondered at the miracle, for that it surely was, of the victory at Helm's Deep. But after I saw you and your sisters in battle, I wondered no longer. For if the Riddermark produces women of such formidable mettle, then surely your countrymen could defeat any host thrown at them. And I count myself fortunate and honoured to have a daughter of Rohan in this party."

His words stole the breath from Anoline's body. It had been her idea to form the Éowiim, and it seemed at times that only the force of her own personality kept them together. Neither she nor her fellow horsewomen had ever received a single word of encouragement from any man of Rohan, least of all from the King himself; quite the opposite, in fact. Thus, the Ranger's praise meant more to her than she had words to describe. Her eyes shimmered, and she was glad of the rain that would hide the tears rolling down her cheeks--a display of emotion that hardly befit a warrior, she thought.

"Thank you..." she managed to murmur, in response to which Evandor nodded. But his attention and his gaze were now drawn to the top of the fortress wall as he impatiently awaited some sign that the hobbits had successfully negotiated their way up the privy shaft.

He was not alone in this preoccupation. "Blast it, what's taking those two lads so long?" Gimli muttered from beside him.

* * *

Merry was nearing the top of the shaft, and none too soon, he thought. The walls were quite slick in places, and only by pressing against them with all the might his limbs possessed was he able to keep from sliding back down. It made for much slower going than he would have liked, but at least it kept him thinking about what made the walls so slick. The stench of the latrine seemed to get worse as he rose, perhaps simply through length of exposure; the kerchief he wore over his mouth and nose offered little protection from the smell. He felt as though he would surely gag if he had to endure the foul-smelling shaft much longer.

"Can't you move any faster?" Pippin, climbing beneath Merry, urged him in an impatient whisper.

"Do you want me to slip and fall on top of you?" Merry angrily whispered back at him.

"Considering what we'd fall _into_, I would have to say no," Pippin replied and continued climbing. "When this is over, Evandor had better accompany us back to the Shire," Pippin murmured a moment later.

"Why?" Merry asked as he raised himself a little further. He could just see the privy hole above him...

"Because he owes us a round of drinks at the Green Dragon for this," Pippin answered.

Merry laughed softly. "_Several_ rounds, I should think. Ah! Here we are."

With that, Merry finally grasped the stones at the opening at the top of the shaft. He thankfully and eagerly pulled himself through the small hole, which was just wide enough for him to slip through. He turned around and helped Merry climb out of the shaft, and they removed their kerchiefs from their faces and smiled at one another in relief.

That feeling, however, was short-lived, for at that very moment, they heard the door to the garderobe begin to creak open. The two hobbits glanced at the opening door in surprise and horror, then looked about quickly for a hiding-place. They quickly saw and ran to a small, dark corner of the latrine, along the same wall as the shaft opening and obscured by the raised platform that housed it.

A big, burly orc stumbled into the small room, turned, and lowered his breeches. He then sat upon the makeshift seat above the latrine shaft. He groaned with relief as he did his business. Merry and Pippin crouched in the darkness and fervently wished for the orc to finish and leave. Evidently, however, the stocky creature was having some digestive problems; he shifted uncomfortably atop the seat and grunted loudly as he made what appeared to be a monumental effort to evacuate his bowels. Merry and Pippin retrieved their kerchiefs from their pockets and held them over their mouths and nostrils in anticipation of the success of the orc's grotesque endeavour.

To the hobbits, the orc's loathsome task seemed to take forever. But finally, with a great thundering noise that seemed to shake every stone in the small room, the vile creature finally achieved his purpose, and gave a long moan of satisfaction. He slowly rose to his feet, pulled up and buckled his breeches, and shuffled out of the latrine.

A terrible stench now thickened the air in the tiny garderobe, and Pippin rose, desperate to vacate the room as quickly as possible. Merry caught his coat sleeve and held him back, however, realizing the orc might still be nearby and witness the two small intruders' hasty exit from the latrine. Though his eyes were watering, Merry held Pippin fast and slowly counted to ten. Then he nodded and the two hobbits scrambled to the door, opened it, and left the reeking room behind them. Once outside, they greedily and thankfully gulped down several breaths of fresh air.

They found themselves in a covered section of the battlements; the privy's walls formed part of an archway that sheltered its entrance. No torch blazed nearby, so Merry and Pippin found themselves in a very dark area of the parapet, and were glad of it, for it concealed them admirably. They could see a dark figure walking quickly away from them on the battlement, no doubt the orc who had just finished using the latrine. He was rushing back to another covered portion of the wall; indeed, Merry and Pippin saw few guards out upon this section of the parapet. They looked across the fortress towards the part of the battlements that were mostly concealed by the dark, rising tower being reconstructed within them. They could see more torches and guards over there, and realized that was where the main gate must be located--hence the concentration of forces in that area. Prince Dredmor no doubt regarded this section of the wall as nigh-impregnable, as it indeed would appear to anyone unfamiliar with hobbits and how extraordinary they could be.

Once they felt comforted that no guards were nearby, Merry and Pippin crept out of the covered archway and onto the parapet. Here, the wall formed a series of indentations and raised portions, the latter called merlons, behind which soldiers could take cover as they rained arrows, rocks, and hot oil down on their enemies. Merry took the hithlain rope from where it hung off of his shoulder and formed a knotted loop while Pippin kept watch. Merry cast the loop up and over one of the merlons and pulled hard, testing it for fastness. Satisfied, he gathered up the remaining coils of rope and threw it over the side of the wall. He then crouched down with Pippin into the shadows beneath the crinolines and waited for the others.

The hithlain rope fell and then dangled enticingly a few feet from the four warriors waiting in the rain for its arrival. Legolas rose and made ready to climb up first, confident in his elvish ability to nimbly negotiate the sheer stone wall, but Evandor quickly manoeuvred in front of him. The Ranger grabbed the rope first and started to climb hand-over-hand, his feet pressing against the stone wall. Legolas stole a glance at his friend Gimli and shrugged, then followed the Ranger. Anoline took her turn after him, followed by Gimli.

Shortly, the party was reunited with the hobbits. They crouched in the darkness offered by the high merlons while they drew their weapons and glanced warily about at the inside of the fortress. Gimli smiled at the two halflings and moved forward to clap them on the back in congratulations, but then his nose wrinkled and he drew back from them.

"Er... you lads may want to keep your distance," he murmured. "And... do me the very great favour of staying downwind of me," he added, waving his hand in front of his face.

"This way," Evandor said, holding his broadsword before him as he led the party along the battlement towards a high bastion tower with a wooden door facing the parapet. Not for the first time that night, the six companions each silently acknowledged their appreciation of the rain. The cold misery they endured in it also ensured the evacuation of the battlements by the apparently undisciplined guards. Once inside the fortress, however, they knew they could not be so sure to avoid detection. Now that they were so close to their goal and in the heart of the enemy's camp, so their nerves were on edge, all their senses at their highest state of alert.

Evandor reached the doorway in the bastion. He carefully eased it open. Inside, a lone torch blazed, lighting a curving stone staircase that comprised the inside of the tower. As they descended the staircase, they heard a low, soft rumbling coming from below. As they neared the bottom, they could see the source of the noise: several orcs, a dozen at least, lay upon the stone floor at the base of the tower, snoring as they slept. Anxiously, their hearts pounding, the six companions crept their way between them, walking between and at times over the slumbering orcs, heading towards a door at the base of the tower.

They quietly eased the door open and went through it, then found themselves in the fortress's inner courtyard. This portion of the cobble-stoned courtyard was empty, but they could nevertheless hear noises emanating from the other side of the tower, evidently from the guards watching the main gate. A few paces in front of them, a torch sputtered in the rain beside a wooden door at the base of the central tower. Evandor moved towards it, his companions following.

The Ranger stopped short as he opened the door a crack and then stole a glance inside. He turned to his companions and placed one finger over his lips. Just inside the door, a single orc guard sat upon a low stool. Even outside, the intruders could hear his heavy snoring, assuring them that he was fast asleep. Evandor slowly eased the door open, grimacing and stopping when it creaked. But the orc did not stir, and once Evandor had opened the door just enough to slip through it, his companions followed, creeping on tip-toe. The orc sat in a small chamber which housed a door and another staircase. While the others held their breath, Evandor crept over to the inner door and opened it. He then closed it and turned back inside, shaking his head, mouthing the word 'kitchen'. The six companions made their way to the staircase and began to ascend.

At the top of the stairway's first flight was another door; then the stairway turned and continued, leading to the tower's next floor. Evandor reached the door on the second storey and eased it open. As they went through the door, the group found themselves in a short, empty hallway. A few paces to the right, the hallway was a dead end, leading to a blank wall; they all turned to the left and moved forward stealthily on the stone floor. Evandor stopped them where the hallway ended; they glanced out around a corner and could see many more sleeping orcs, and several men as well, strewn out on the stone floor in a large, darkened chamber that seemed to comprise most of that level of the tower. At its far side, they could see what appeared to be a much grander staircase than the one they were using leading up to the next level. Turning, Evandor shook his head and led the group back to the stairway.

The next storey seemed identical to the one below it: the stairway opened out into a short hallway, leading to another large room filled with slumbering orc and human soldiers with a grand staircase at the far side. Merry shuddered to think what would happen to them if the soldiers woke up and found these six intruders creeping around their castle. He turned and glared at Pippin, recalling how, a few years ago, his friend had made such a loud commotion in the mines of Moria that it drew the orcs directly to the Fellowship. Pippin only returned his glare with a look of surprised innocence. Merry placed one finger over his lips, in reaction to which Pippin just rolled his eyes and nodded his head impatiently.

The fourth storey had a different layout than the two below it. Here, the stairway led out to a similar short hallway, but rather than leading to a large room, the hall led to a smaller one that was, nonetheless, much grander than those below it. In the room, at one end, was an elevated platform; upon it was a dark, high-backed mahogany throne. On the stone walls hung large tapestries depicting battles between orcs, elves, and men, in which the orcs were depicted as victorious. A long runner on the floor led from the throne to an opening in the wall that led out to a balcony. Apparently this part of the tower was a throne room, and was evidently still under construction, as the balcony had no balustrade. On the far side of the room, a wide hallway led to the grand staircase they had seen on the lower levels. On either side of this wide hall were two smaller hallways, leading, it seemed, to a few smaller rooms.

The attention of the six companions, however, was drawn to the centre of the room. There, upon an platform of blackest obsidian, sat a dark stone orb--the palantir. On either side of it, two orc guards stood watch, each one armoured heavily and holding a poleaxe with a broad, formidable cutting edge. One of the orcs, evidently bored, had set the tip of his poleaxe into the floor and was leaning his chin upon the tip of its handle. The other orc seemed similarly jaded by his duties and contented himself with idly scratching at his broad backside every few moments.

Evandor signalled for Legolas to step forward to the corner of the wall that concealed them. The Ranger placed both his hands beneath his chin and then pointed to Legolas; he scratched his side and then pointed to himself. Legolas nodded, and then they both pulled their bows from where they were slung over their shoulders. They drew forth arrows from their quivers and nocked them into their bowstrings, then took aim. Their arrows struck each orc at the base of the skull, and the two creatures uttered no cry as they fell to the ground, quite dead. The wide runner covering the stone floor helped muffle the clatter of their armour and weapons as their bodies fell.

With the guards dead, the six companions surged forward from their hiding place towards the palantir. The stopped short, however, when a third orc ran forward from one of the two narrow hallways opposite.

"What's this commotion?" the orc demanded grumpily, then saw his two fellow guards dead on the floor and six strangers standing across from him. His pig-like eyes opened wide, and he opened his mouth to raise the alarm.

Legolas had already pulled another arrow from his quiver and was preparing to shoot when a bright flash seen out of the corner of his eye caught his attention. The elf heard a quiet _THUNK _from across the room, and saw the third orc fall to his knees, then onto his side, before he could utter one more word. Embedded in his head, right between his eyes, was a large knife. Legolas looked behind him and saw Anoline standing there, the arm she had used to throw the knife still extended forward.

"Nicely done," he said to the horsewoman, who smiled briefly at the compliment, and in relief as well.

"The palantir," Merry said, reminding his companions of the purpose of their now very dangerous quest. He walked towards the platform that held the seeing stone, followed by the others. The hobbit could not reach the top of the pedestal. Anoline reached out towards the stone, but Merry tugged at the hem of her long tunic to stop her. "Don't touch it," he said, looking up at the mystical stone warily. He looked around for Pippin and saw his friend, his face quite pale, at the back of the group, keeping as much distance as he could between himself and what has purportedly Sauron's own palantir.

Legolas stepped forward; he took off his dark green cloak and threw it over the stone, covering it. He then gingerly took hold of the stone within his cloak and lifted it from the pedestal. He glanced at his companions, then bent down and handed the stone, still concealed within his cloak, to Merry.

"Why do you want _me_ to carry it?" the hobbit asked, reluctantly holding out his hands.

"A hobbit was entrusted with the one ring," Legolas said, looking proudly at Merry. "I would not trust this other instrument of the enemy to anyone but one of Frodo's kind."

Merry pressed his lips together and nodded at the compliment and the reminder of their friend, now gone from them forever to the Undying Lands. He accepted the stone and held it carefully in his arms. Pippin continued to watch him, and his new charge, warily.

"All right," Merry said. "We have what we came for. How do we get out of here, Evandor...?" The hobbit's voice trailed off as he looked around for the tall Ranger, but did not find him.

"Now where's he gone?" Gimli asked as he noticed Evandor's absence and looked around for him.

"There!" Legolas said, pointing to one of the narrow hallways across the room, where his companions just caught a glimpse of Evandor's long black cape disappearing down the hall.

"I knew it!" Merry said, glaring angrily at the hallway where Evandor had gone. He quickly realized that it was the same hall that the third orc had come from. "I knew he was up to something! He's betrayed us!"

"No!" Anoline exclaimed, gazing in disbelief at the hallway opening where the Ranger had vanished. "He wouldn't!"

"Not yet," Legolas said, his fair brows furrowing in uncharacteristic anger, "but we cannot take the risk that he will! After him!"

With that, the group of five ran angrily after their erstwhile leader, determined to stop the treachery in which he was no doubt engaged. In their haste, they did not notice two more orc guards climbing the grand staircase towards the throne room they had just abandoned.


	10. Prince Dredmor

**Into the East**

_ A Lord of the Rings fanfic by Sisiutil_

* * *

**Chapter 10: Prince Dredmor**

Legolas reached the hallway first, followed closely by Anoline, then Gimli, with Merry and Pippin trailing behind. Several paces ahead, at the end of the hallway, Legolas saw Evandor trying a closed door. When it did not open, the tall Ranger took a step back and forced it open with a powerful kick.

"Evandor!" Legolas exclaimed as loudly as he dared in a tower teeming with sleeping orcs, but the Ranger did not seem to hear him. Instead, he strode swiftly through the door he had just opened. It seemed to Legolas as though their erstwhile leader was obsessively pursuing his own goal now, and that the rest of their party no longer existed. Legolas ran down the hall towards the door, followed by his companions. The elf's bow was in his hands, and he regretfully pulled an arrow from his quiver. If Evandor was indeed engaging in some sort of treachery that threatened them all, he would have no choice but to put the arrow to use.

Legolas reached the door first, took a step into the room, and then stopped dead in his tracks. Anoline ran in behind him and she, too, stopped short to stare in surprise at what she saw within the room. Gimli, Pippin, and Merry then ran to the doorway and struggled to see past their two tall comrades at what lay within.

"Move out of the way, you two!" Gimli grumbled, forcing his way between Legolas and Anoline while he fingered his axe angrily. "What's this scoundrel abandoned us for... oh."

When Merry and Pippin scuttled around the tall legs of their companions, they found themselves looking past Evandor, whose back was to them. A few paces in front of him, standing by a window, was one of the loveliest young women they had ever seen.

Had her hair not been decoratively pulled back into a braid, revealing her delicate, rounded ears, she could have passed for one of the elf-folk. She was tall, slender, and exceedingly fair, and the soft candlelight illuminating the room only enhanced her beauty, as did the long gown of dark green velvet with gold brocade that she wore. She could not have been past her sixteenth year, for she was radiant with the fresh bloom of youth. Her hair was a luminous chestnut brown, her eyes a complementary hazel beneath thin, arched brows. Her nose was straight and delicate, her cheekbones and forehead high, her lips full.

She was staring at the tall Ranger, and her lovely eyes and mouth opened in an expression of surprise, but only for a moment, as though she had been expecting his arrival. Then her expression changed. As the others watched, the girl's eyes shimmered, then tears spilled from them. A heartbeat later, she ran towards Evandor, throwing her arms around him as she uttered a single word in a passionate tone that expressed her relief and her utter, undying love for the tall Ranger.

"Father!" she cried. Evandor wrapped his arms around the girl, and his companions watched as the Ranger's broad shoulders shook as he drew a tremulous breath.

"Valimavi... oh my child, my darling girl!" he said as he embraced her, his voice raw with not only relief, but also some deep, unnamed sorrow.

To say that Evandor's companions were shocked and surprised would be an understatement. They had chased after the Ranger expecting to encounter treachery, and instead had stumbled upon this tender and affecting reunion of father and daughter. They glanced at one another, unsure of what they should do or say, if anything. Gimli finally stirred himself to action, or at least to the very loud clearing of his throat.

The sound had the desired effect. Evandor turned to face them, though he kept an arm protectively wrapped around his daughter's slender shoulders. When his five companions looked upon his face, they saw that his cheeks were wet with tears.

"Ah," the Ranger said, his voice still rough with emotion, "these... are my friends," he said, a note of pride in his companions creeping into his voice. "May I present my daughter, Valimavi." He then took a deep, quick breath and seemed to quickly recover some command of himself as he wiped the tears from his face. "You have the stone?" he asked. Merry, still speechless, nodded and raised Legolas' dark green cloak and the palantir which was wrapped within it. Evandor nodded. "A wise precaution. I am afraid that proper introductions and the explanation I owe you all shall have to wait. We must make our escape, and quickly! Come!"

With that, Evandor strode towards the door, his daughter at his side, his left arm still around her shoulders. His still stunned and speechless companions parted and allowed him to pass, then fell in behind him. When Evandor stepped into the hallway, he drew his sword, then glanced back at his companions. He nodded his head forward and walked hurriedly down the hall, towards where it joined with the throne room.

When he reached the entrance to the hall, however, he stopped and drew back, obeying some instinct honed by years of battle. He pressed his daughter behind him and brought the small party to a halt. As he did so, from either side of the hall's entrance several orcs appeared, with several rough-looking men among their number, all brandishing weapons at the group of intruders. Valimavi gasped, as did Merry and Pippin; Legolas stepped forward to stand at Evandor's right hand, an arrow already nocked in his bowstring which he drew and aimed at the nearest orc; Anoline followed suit and stepped up to stand at Evandor's left, her sword held before her. Gimli growled menacingly and pushed his way forward between Evandor and Legolas, shaking his axe menacingly at the host of orcs and men.

"Well, well, well," a male voice said in a dulcet tone. "What have we here?"

The crowd of orcs and men parted and stepped back from the small company they had ambushed. Out of their midst strode a tall, well-built man in the prime of life, wearing a bemused grin on his handsome features. His hair was light blond, his beard a slightly darker shade, and both were immaculately trimmed. Upon his fair head he wore a diadem crown, a thin band of gold that encircled his head and broadened to encase a large, flat ruby that sparkled above his forehead. He wore a resplendent red velvet robe, trimmed with fur of ermine, over a fine white linen tunic and breeches of black silk.

"Ah," the finely-clothed, handsome man said as he strolled fearlessly towards the small group of armed warriors his guards were holding at bay. "Evandor, my old friend. I might have known"

"We are friends no longer, Dredmor," the Ranger said, his voice low and seething with hatred as he confirmed the Prince's identity. "Not since you strayed onto the path of darkness. Not since you murdered my wife and my son." His voice cracked as he spoke the words, and Valimavi inhaled sharply to confirm their truth.

Prince Dredmor only smiled and shook his head in response to the terrible accusation. "My, my, you Dúnedain _do _know how to hold a grudge, do you not? One would think that such a long-lived race would somehow learn to let bygones be bygones."

The Prince paused and cast his crystal-blue eyes over the Ranger's companions. When his eyes settled on Pippin briefly, the hobbit recollected Frodo's words a few years before, when he posited that an enemy would look fair and feel foul, and knew that this was exactly the sort of creature of which his friend had spoken. Legolas, meanwhile, kept his bowstring drawn and the arrow pointed at the man's heart, but he knew that if he let it fly, he and his companions would be slaughtered by the many orcs and men they faced. The Prince knew this as well, and thus stood openly before the master bowman without fear.

"And you've brought along a merry band of adventurers, I see!" Dredmor said, smiling with condescending amusement. "How droll! And what a motley group you've assembled! An elf, a dwarf, two half-men, and..." His gaze settled upon Anoline, and his fair brows rose in appreciation of the horsewoman's fierce beauty. "Well. It appears you've brought me a wedding present on the eve of my nuptials with your daughter. How thoughtful. I suspect she will make a very sporting concubine, this one..."

Anoline's eyes blazed with fury. "I am no man's _concubine_, you _cur_!" she snarled. She stepped forward, her sword held before her and pointed at the prince, but she stopped short when the orcs closest to her hissed and pressed the tips of their weapons towards her, making her step back in retreat. Her green eyes narrowed and still regarded the Prince with seething contempt.

"I'll _never _marry you, _murderer_!" Valimavi shouted at him.

Dredmor shifted his gaze to her, seemingly regarding the slender girl with pity. He sighed heavily and shook his head. "You have no choice in the matter, my dear," he said, then turned to Evandor. "I have explained it to her over and over. And I assure you, future father-in-law, I have been respectful. I have not laid a hand upon her, I swear," he said superciliously, placing his right hand upon his heart. "Indeed, have I not delayed the nuptials until her birthday on the morrow, when she comes of age? I think I've gone out of my way to do things properly!" Evandor only glared at him silently in response, and once again sighed.

"I weary of this," Dredmor said, and his handsome features took on an angry, threatening cast as he looked at the small group before him. "The only reason you people are still alive is because you have, in your possession, two things that rightfully belong to me. This girl," he said, pointing to Valimavi and making her protectors bristle with tension, "and the Palantir of Minas Ithil. Return both to my possession and I will ensure your deaths are quick and merciful; defy me and they will be slow and painful. I will have you tortured in the dungeons of Dol Guldur for _months_. The choice is yours."

The room became silent as the Prince's demand, and its accompanying threat, hung in the air. All around him, Pippin could sense his companions bracing for battle--a battle he knew they could not win. He saw at least two score of orcs and men facing them. The Prince's eyes were focused upon Merry; obviously he had discerned the shape of the seeing stone beneath the elvish cloak the hobbit held in his hands.

"Give me the stone," Dredmor said, his voice low and menacing, his hand outstretched towards Merry expectantly, "or die horribly." Around him, his many orc and human soldiers growled and snarled and brandished their weapons threateningly at the tiny band of adventurers.


	11. The Palantir

**Into the East**

_A Lord of the Rings fanfic by Sisiutil_

* * *

**Chapter 11: The Palantir**

"Give. Me. The. STONE," Dredmor repeated, his teeth grinding together as he spoke, his lips pulled back in a fierce snarl. His dark eyes blazed as he glowered threateningly at the small group who opposed him, his gaze focused on Merry in particular, who held the seeing stone in his hands, wrapped inside Legolas' dark green elvish cloak. Around the Prince, over forty heavily-armed and armoured orcs and a few rough-looking men mirrored his menacing expression and pressed their weapons towards the two hobbits and their companions.

Pippin could feel his heart pounding in his chest and sweat upon his skin. He could almost taste the tension in the room, it was so palatable. He could see his tall companions' muscles tense as they readied themselves for battle. But against such overwhelming numbers, Pippin knew that they stood no chance. The best they could hope for was to dispatch a few of the evil Prince's soldiers before they themselves succumbed. Then Prince Dredmor would be triumphant: he would have back the palantir to inspire his minions and draw more to him; and he would force Evandor's lovely young daughter into a marriage against her will.

The latter thought stirred Pippin's emotions. His fear, in a heartbeat, changed to anger. The thought of the lovely young maiden being forced to wed this brutish tyrant fired his courage. Silently, Pippin reminded himself that he had stood with a small host of men before the Black Gate of Mordor, a force that was similarly outnumbered by their enemy as he and his companions were now. He had been ready to die that day, he had prepared himself for it and reconciled himself to it.

But he had not died, nor had Merry, nor Aragorn, nor Legolas or Gimli or so many of the others who had stood with them before the dark and dreadful entrance to the black land. They had survived, even triumphed... because of Frodo and Sam. Because two of his kind, two quiet, unassuming, yet incredibly brave and stalwart hobbits had persevered against terrible odds and hardships and had saved Middle-Earth from the threat of Sauron's tyranny. Pippin took a deep breath, his chest puffing up as he remembered his friends' great courage. Was he not of that same race, small of stature yet stout of heart? Did he not feel obliged to honour the memory of Frodo's and Sam's great deeds?

The hobbit looked defiantly into the Prince's eyes. In them, he saw the man's brutal determination to have his way. And yet, the hobbit saw something else there, and realized he'd heard it as well, like a low undertone in the man's voice: a hint of desperation. He did not just _want _the stone, he _needed _it. The palantir, Pippin realized, was the key. It was how this scoundrel had drawn these remnants of Sauron's army to him, how he held them under his command. And in that moment of realization, Pippin knew what he must do.

He turned quickly to Merry, who was standing beside him, and before his friend realized what was happening, he had pulled the seeing stone from his hands.

"Pippin!" Merry exclaimed. "What are you doing?"

But Pippin did not seem to hear him. The hobbit stepped forward; he took a deep breath, suppressed a shudder, and then cast Legolas' cloak off of the palantir and held it in his bare hands. He flinched involuntarily and turned his face away from the stone. He heard the Prince inhale sharply. Then Pippin turned his head back towards the stone and looked into it. Memories of his horrific encounter with the dark lord Sauron himself through the Palantir of Orthanc filled his mind, nearly paralyzing him.

But the stone in his hands remained cold, lifeless, and inert. He looked at it more closely and in its dark crystalline depths, he saw a deep fracture. Pippin wondered for a moment if the palantir was damaged--broken, in fact. But some instinct deep inside him whispered the truth, and when he knew it, he could not help himself. He laughed.

"Give me the palantir, you puny..." Prince Dredmor snarled at him, stepping forward to claim his prize.

"What, this thing?" Pippin said, then tossed the stone into the air, just above his head, and caught it in his hands. His actions froze the Prince in position. "Why so nervous?" Pippin asked him. "Real palantirs are unbreakable, do you not know that?" Again, he tossed and caught the stone, making the evil Prince inhale sharply through his clenched teeth.

"Stop it!" Dredmor exclaimed. "It's not a plaything, you fool!"

"No, I suppose not," Pippin said, tossing the stone into the air and catching it a third time. All attention in the room was focused upon him, and he smiled contentedly, apparently quite enjoying himself. "I suppose it would make a fine paperweight--well, if it wasn't so round. As it is, it would be forever rolling off things." He looked up at Prince Dredmor, whose pallor had grown quite pale. "You see, I've held a palantir. A real one. I looked straight into the dread, fiery eye of Sauron himself, and he looked into the very depths of my soul!" At the mention of the dark lord's name, the orcs collectively gasped in awe and reverence. "Yes, it was quite an experience!" Pippin assured them. His audience, friend and enemy alike, was spellbound now. He sighed and glanced at the stone in his hands. "Sadly, this is no palantir. It's a lovely piece of stonework to be sure, but it's really just a big, round rock." He glanced up at Prince Dredmor, one of his brows cocked slyly. "But you knew that, didn't you?"

The briefest moment of hesitation on the Prince's part confirmed what Pippin had suspected. But the Prince recovered his wits quickly. "You _lie_!" Dredmor hissed at him. "A puny creature such as you could not possibly know how to use one of the seeing stones! And you most certainly could not have survived an encounter with Sauron himself!" Pippin could actually hear the man's teeth grinding; the Prince's pallor had changed from anxious pale to furious red. "Now GIVE. ME. THE. STONE!!"

Pippin nodded. In his peripheral vision, to his left, he could see the unfinished balcony that lacked a restraining balustrade. At his diminutive height, he was able to discern a clear path to it through the bow-legged stance of two burly orcs. "Perhaps you're right. After all, you're a prince, and I'm just a hobbit. Yes, 'hobbit', two B's, not 'half-man', thank you very much. Anyway. You want the stone?" Pippin asked, holding the palantir up as if he was about to hand it over to the Prince. "Very well. Go get it!"

One of the many little-known facts regarding hobbits is that they possess greater strength than their small stature would seem to suggest. Hobbits have learned to employ their strength in various ways; in particular, they are remarkably adept at rock-throwing. Hobbits can cast stones with nearly the same speed and accuracy as if they had been launched from a slingshot. It is one of their principal means of self-defense; though rarely employed, every hobbit worthy of the name learns to throw rocks with great force and precision while he is still a lad. Merry and Pippin had found occasion to employ these abilities when they fought and felled several Uruk-Hai in defense of the wounded warrior of Gondor, Boromir, during the War of the Ring.

It was this skill that Pippin drew upon at this very moment; although he intended to roll the stone rather than throw it, he trusted and fervently hoped that his stone-throwing abilities would prove capable of achieving his goal. The little hobbit drew the stone back to his right side, shifting the bulk of its weight into his right palm. His arms swung back, then quickly forward. He released the stone, aiming it between the wide-spread legs of the two orcs who stood between him and the balcony.

The stone landed on the stone floor with a soft _thunk_ and rolled swiftly through the legs of the first, startled orc. The second one, unable to see precisely what the little creature had done because his burly comrade was blocking his view, merely stood in place and craned his neck to see what was going on. The stone rolled through his legs as well and towards the balcony.

"Out of my way, you FOOLS!" Prince Dredmor cried, running after his precious stone, trying to shove the orcs in his way aside and bouncing off of them instead. A few paces before him, the stone was rolling unimpeded towards the wide opening of the balcony. The evil prince lost his composure, screeched in abject fear, and launched himself into a panicked run after the rolling rock.

The stone rolled out onto the balcony, heading towards its edge. The Prince gasped and attempted one last, desperate gambit to save the stone and with it, his command, his army, his dreams of war and conquest, to which, genuine or not, the stone was indeed the key. He threw himself forward, arms outstretched, fingers reaching, his body straining to grab the stone and prevent its plunge from the high balcony. He stretched desperately, and felt the cold, reassuring touch of the stone on his fingertips.

Just as the stone seemed within his grasp, however, it rolled over the edge of the balcony, and the Prince, so single-mindedly pursuing it, so intent upon the rescue of his talisman, gave no thought to stopping his headlong dive. His hands strained to hold on to the stone, and only when his torso dipped over the balcony's edge and his legs raised uselessly behind him did he realize his mistake. With a terrified scream, Prince Dredmor followed his precious, ersatz palantir over the edge of the balcony from which he had planned to address his vast armies of conquest.

Several of the members of this nascent army were gathered in the fortress' courtyard. A collective gasp went up from the assembled orcs and men when they saw the artefact of their old leader and the body of their new one both plunging from the high balcony of the tower. The stone struck the hard pavement of the courtyard first, and the fracture Pippin had seen proved the stone's undoing, for it shattered into two large pieces and several smaller ones. Prince Dredmor struck the cobblestones of his courtyard right after his precious stone, and though he did not exactly shatter, he likewise met his end.

"The stone!" a great cry went up from the orcs in the courtyard who had served Sauron and had been drawn to this lone surviving souvenir--or so they had been told--of their malignant lord. "The stone is shattered!"

"The Prince!" several more orcs shouted. "The Prince is dead!"

The rough, mournful cries of the orcs rose to the high throne room of the tower and echoed within it. There, the core of the dead Prince's forces--some two score orcs and a half-dozen men--heard the cries and the wretched news they imparted, and as one, they gasped. They looked uncertainly at one another, then turned to glare angrily at the seven interlopers who had deprived them of their leader and of their sacred relic.


	12. The Battle of Dol Guldur

**Into the East**

_A Lord of the Rings fanfic by Sisiutil_

**Chapter 12: The Battle of Dol Guldur**

* * *

It should have been simple. 

It had certainly, on the face of it, seemed like such a simple mission, two months ago, when Prince Dredmor had issued the order. The farmhouse was isolated, the nearest village a half-day's journey away; no one to hear an angry shout or a cry for aid, let alone the sounds of a battle—not that they were expecting one. They were to wait until the man left, for he was a Ranger and therefore formidable and a complication; they were supposed to have hunted him down later, when they had greater numbers available. The objective was to grab the girl. Anyone who got in their way--such as the mother or the whelp--was to be killed. It would be preferable, in fact, if they were.

It should have been simple. And it would have been, if not for the Prince's additional condition.

"The girl is _not _to be harmed," he'd said. "Not in any way. I shall _personally _deal with any of you that violates this cardinal instruction." The Prince's fair features had darkened, like the blazing sun when a heavy cloud passes over it. "And his death will not be quick, nor easy..."

It should have been simple. In fact, to the orcs, it sounded like a jolly good time. Kill a woman and a man-child and kidnap a stripling girl. Burn their home to the ground just for good measure. Then hunt down the father. Death, abduction, destruction... it was what an orc lived for. What could be better?

None of them could really explain, later on, as they prostrated themselves before the Prince, when or how everything had gone so wrong. The Ranger had left his home to conduct some sort of business in a nearby town; the orcs had the advantage of surprise and superior numbers. It should have been simple, so very simple.

When they'd burst into the farmhouse, they'd fully expected the woman and her brats to scream in terror. Instead, after the merest moment of shock and surprise, the whole family had quickly obtained weapons and had brought them to bear. The orcs had laughed in derision. Two women--one still only a youth--threatening them with swords, and a mere boy brandishing a blade not much bigger than a dagger! Such gall!

The laughter had quickly stopped when the mother's sword deftly beheaded the lead orc. Her daughter, that mere slip of a girl, had followed her dam's lead, moving amongst the orcs like a dancer, her light blade swinging and decorating the little house's walls with black orc blood. Even the boy had joined in, stabbing at the attackers' legs with his vile little dagger.

Eventually, the sheer numbers of the orcs prevailed. One of them finally managed to grab the boy and dash his head against the stone fireplace. His mother gave a cry of anguish and killed two more of their number, but her grief distracted her, and an orc ran her through with his sword.

The girl was another matter. They all remembered the Prince's order, and his threat. She was no fool, and despite witnessing the deaths of her mother and younger brother, she had maintained enough composure to deduce their predicament regarding her from their behaviour. She held them off, dispatching one orc after another, until finally their dwindling but remaining number rushed her and overpowered her.

Had it not been for the Prince's directive, they would have gladly killed her to avenge their fallen comrades. Of the fifteen orcs that had attacked the house, only six made it back to Dol Guldur, all of them licking wounds, dragging the bound and tearful yet angry girl, who resisted them every step of the way. The objective had been achieved, but the cost had been high, and the Prince's anger terrible. His wrath grew worse when word came that the Ranger had disappeared. Despite their evident success, the orcs that had survived the raid had all been demoted.

The story was shared amongst the orcs and the dregs of humanity that inhabited Dol Guldur, and the tale grew in the telling, as tales often do, especially when its few surviving witnesses need to save face. The current version, told to newcomers, held that a hundred orcs had attacked the farmhouse and that all but two had been slain, all of them dispatched by the horrid girl held captive in the Prince's tower, who had been, through universal discussion and consent, elevated to the status of a witch.

These events, and their subsequent embellishment, served to explain the orcs' astonishing reaction to the simple act the girl performed now, at this very moment, when several dozen of them held her, her father, and their five companions at bay in a hallway off the throne room, high in the rebuilt tower of Dol Guldur.

"Father," Valimavi said quietly, her dark eyes never wavering from the host of orcs and men before her, "did you bring it?"

Evandor said nothing. He merely turned his right hip towards his daughter. She glanced at the sword that hung there, the one smaller and lighter than his own broadsword that Merry had noticed several times on their journey, the one that the grieving yet determined Ranger had retrieved from the ruins of his home. Valimavi smiled grimly, reached forward, and drew the sword.

A collective gasp went through the assembled force of orcs and men, and they involuntarily took a step back from the girl they had all come to regard as a fearsome combination of warrior and witch. She held the blade straight up, glancing at it as though greeting an old friend, then she turned her level gaze back to the crowd of enemies before her. The girl's eyes narrowed as she focused on one particular orc, a heavy-set one with yellowish skin, standing at the front of the crowd. She lowered her blade and pointed it at him.

"That one killed mother," Valimavi declared.

These mere words transformed her father utterly. His expression changed from one of steadfast determination to fight to one of unmitigated fury towards his enemies. The man's cobalt blue eyes blazed suddenly with rage, and his lips peeled back from his teeth. With a wrathful snarl, he stepped forward, swung his blade, and the sallow-faced orc's head spun in the air above his comrades and then fell to the stone floor.

As if it were a pre-arranged signal, the death of the orc spurred the rest of the party into sudden and terrible action. An arrow leapt from Legolas' bow, striking a dark-featured orc in the throat; before the creature had fallen to its knees, Legolas had dispatched two more orcs in a similar fashion. His companion Gimli shouted an wrathful dwarvish war-cry and surged forward, his battle-axe swinging in a deadly arc, felling two, sometimes three orcs with each sweep. The late Prince's soldiers could not get near the elf for fear of an arrow taking them down, and Legolas kept a close eye on Gimli to ensure no orc or man could get near enough to cause harm to his friend.

Anoline gave a high-pitched, ululating cry and sprang into battle beside Evandor, protecting the Ranger's flank and slaying any man or orc who came within reach of her blade. As she fought, her reddish-blonde hair billowed about her face like an angry flame. Quickly, she and Evandor waded into the thick of the opposing force, their backs to one another, their swords cutting down any who dared attack them.

Valimavi stepped forward, her steps light as a dancer's, and the orcs drew back from her in fear. Following a valiant instinct to protect the young maiden, Merry and Pippin scrambled forward to either side of her. Unnoticed by the orcs who were so terrified of the warrior witch they'd all heard about, the two hobbits ran forward and used their elvish daggers to stab at the orcs' thighs. When one of the wounded creatures stopped his retreat to bellow in pain, Valimavi stepped forward and deftly finished the task the hobbits had started.

The audaciousness of the small group's attack gave them an advantage at first. However, the Prince's soldiers quickly recovered. Every one of them knew they could prevail based upon their overwhelming numbers. Those at the back of the group pushed forward, forcing those in front into the blades and arrows of the seven companions fighting them. As they fell, others stepped forward to take their place, and the small group of fighters was pushed back. They regrouped and clustered together in the opening to the hallway, barely holding off their numerous attackers.

Sensing the shift in battle, Legolas, cunning as ever, sought to turn the tide. The elf knew that more orcs and men were on the lower floors of the tower and would rush up to join their comrades if given the chance, and then he and his friends would be slaughtered. But if they could be driven away...

Legolas looked towards the opening in the wall that led to the unfinished balcony. Two orcs stood there, hanging about at the edge of the battle, apparently quite willing to let their comrades perish by attacking the group. An idea came to him, inspired by Pippin's use of the balcony only a few moments ago. He stepped back behind Evandor for protection and turned towards the balcony. He nocked an arrow, took careful aim, and shot one of the two loitering orcs in the chest. The creature cried out in pain, staggered backwards, and then fell from the balcony. He gave a blood-curdling scream as he fell. The sound was cut short as he struck the ground to lay dead beside his Prince.

"Gimli!" Legolas shouted. "The balcony! Drive them over it!"

Beside him, the dwarf looked towards the balcony and the orcs standing at its entrance. He smiled wolfishly. He did not immediately grasp the intent of Legolas' desperate gambit, but driving his enemies over a precipice to certain death sounded like good fun. With a coarse shout, Gimli leapt forward, his battle axe swinging and biting at those in front of him.

The orcs facing him staggered backwards. Like a falling line of dominoes, they struck against one another, those in front pushing those behind further back, until the last orc took a step back, found nothing beneath his feet but air, and fell to the ground below with a scream. Gimli pressed forward and swung his axe. Three orcs fell from the balcony this time, but each one in two different pieces, as the dwarf's fearsome weapon had severed their bodies at the mid-section with an awesome blow.

Taking the hint, Gimli's companions joined him. Legolas, Valimavi, Merry, and Pippin drove more orcs towards the balcony and over its edge, while Evandor and Anoline fought to protect them from the far greater number of opponents in the throne room, lest they suffer the same fate.

In the courtyard below and on the fortress ramparts, orcs and men watched their companions falling out of the tower to their deaths with growing trepidation. The loss of the Prince and his precious talisman had unnerved them greatly. Many had been present when their former leader, infinitely greater and more powerful than the Prince, had also had _his _precious talisman destroyed. And then Barad-dûr had fallen and Mordor had crumbled. The late Prince's soldiers glanced at one another uncertainly. Was history repeating itself? Would this tower also fall and crush them, or would the land open up and swallow them whole, as it had so many of their number when Mordor fell?

As one, they decided not to stay and find out. One wiry orc in the courtyard looked about nervously, then took off running towards the fortress' formidable gate. In a heartbeat, several of his fellows followed.

"Open the gate!" they cried. "Open the gate! The Prince is dead! The stone is destroyed! We are ruined!"

"Hold your ground, you maggots!" the orc captain in charge of the gate yelled at them. "Turn around and..."

But his words were cut short as one of the fleeing orcs shot him in the chest with an arrow. Then the crowd of orcs was upon him, beating him and slashing at him with their weapons. Once the orc captain fell, quite dead, the mob glared with anger borne of fear at the crew of orcs who operated the winches that raised and lowered the heavy portcullis. Not wanting to share the fate of their dead commander, these orcs turned and quickly set to raising the gate. Once it was open, the Prince's former soldiers began to flee through it, and the gate crew joined them.

In the tower, the orcs and men fighting the small band of warriors who had invaded the tower heard the great cry of fear and dread that arose from their companions outside. The mob's fear infected them as well, and a collective shudder ran through them. They paused in their attack and stared with growing trepidation at their opponents. How was it that this tiny group would be able to hold off so many of them, they wondered. Their eyes were particularly drawn to the warrior witch, the slender, chestnut-haired girl who had killed so many of their number before, and again they shuddered.

"The witch!" one of the orcs cried, his snivelling voice quavering with dread. "This is her doing!" Outside, the despairing cries of the fleeing orcs and men continued.

Legolas allowed a confident smile to curl his lips. His gambit was working. Their opponents were wavering. All they needed was one more push...

It was Valimavi who provided it. Aware of their irrational fear of her, the girl brazenly stepped forward, the open entrance to the balcony behind her, her sword, dripping with orc blood, held before her.

"Your _Prince_," she said, spitting the word, "is dead. His precious palantir is destroyed. If you wish to join him in death, come forth, and I shall oblige you!"

At that very moment, as fate would have it, dawn broke. The first glimmer of the morning sun appeared above the forest to the east, the very direction which the balcony and its entrance faced. The bright rays of golden morning light broke into the room, shining about Valimavi, turning her hair golden-brown and shimmering around the outline of her slender frame while rendering her face and body dark and, to the orcs and men facing her, fearsome in contrast. To them, she was at that moment no mere girl, and more even than a witch; she seemed the embodiment of death itself.

As one, the would-be army of the late Prince Dredmor screamed in horror. Their confidence left them, and their true, cowardly nature came to the fore. With the death of the Prince and the destruction of the seeing stone had died all their churlish hopes, and this warrior witch and her companions had been sent to ensure their doom. There was only one thing to do.

"Run!" an orc cried. "Before she kills us all!"

The men and orcs at the rear turned and began to flee down the stairs to the tower's lower levels; those at the front, facing the small band of warriors, also turned and tried to escape as well, but the entrance to the great stairwell was still too narrow to allow the entire host to escape efficiently.

Seeing their chance, Evandor's group pressed forward and attacked their adversaries as they attempted to flee. The arrows of Legolas, the axe of Gimli, the daggers of Merry and Pippin, and the swords of Evandor, Anoline, and Valimavi cut them down without mercy, for the evil and despicable orcs and men who had joined the vile Prince Dredmor deserved none. Those at the front of the group, just setting foot on the stairs, heard the cries of their dying comrades at their rear, and the terrible sounds spurred them onwards. Down the staircase they fled, stumbling and tripping over one another, crushing any so unfortunate as to fall at their feet with their heavy, armoured boots.

The seven companions pressed their attack and the Prince's legions continued their fearful flight. The orcs and men ran down the stairs until they reached the courtyard, then ran across it to the open gate and out into the forest of Mirkwood, which was still dark despite the breaking dawn.

Once the last of their enemies had fled the throne room, Evandor ran to a window that looked out to the west and saw the orcs and men escaping into the forest, most of them running down the main road to the Vale of Rhovanion and the banks of the great river Anduin.

"Damn!" he swore.

"What troubles you, Evandor?" Anoline, standing beside him, asked.

"Those vermin," he answered. "They're getting away. And they're running towards the homes of my friends and neighbours!"

He turned and looked at the young horsewoman and was about to urge her and his other companions into pursuit, but a smug expression on Anoline's lovely face made him stop.

"Yes," she said, "I anticipated something like this. Which is why I instructed the Éowiim to follow a day behind us."

The Ranger's eyes widened in surprise. "You did..." he said, then stopped. "I distinctly remember telling you that your fellow horsewomen were _not_ to accompany us," he said. Though his gruff tone conveyed annoyance, the way the corners of his mouth were curling upwards belied that impression.

"And they did not," Anoline responded, the coquettishness of her response making Evandor's smile broaden. "But those fleeing orcs and men will find a surprise waiting for them when they emerge from Mirkwood."

"Much is said in story and song of the bravery of the Rohirrim," Evandor said, still smiling, "but I see now that justice is not paid to their capacity for _guile_." Anoline returned his slight smile and bowed her head briefly to show her appreciation for the compliment, for she decided to take it as such.

"A fine battle that was!" Gimli roared enthusiastically from behind them as he cleaned the blade of his battle axe on the tunic of a fallen orc. "And I am now sitting pretty at an even five hundred," he declared, casting a sidelong glance at Legolas.

"Five hundred and seven," Legolas said with an ever-so-slight but smug grin.

"Ah!" Gimli said, smiling beneath his beard. "I'm gaining on you, laddie! Hrmmm..." he grumbled, suddenly distracted by a rumbling in his belly. "Did we not pass a kitchen on the way up here?" he said, patting his broad stomach.

"Indeed we did, but before we eat," Pippin said from beside the dwarf, "I think this is definitely a time when I should heed my long-suffering mother's many admonitions to wash up before a meal." He raised the sleeve of his coat to his nose, sniffed it, then blanched and shivered in reaction to the distinct, heady aroma of orc privy which clung to him. "I think a change of clothes might be in order as well."

"I think a _burning _of clothes is in order," Merry said, his nose wrinkling at the smell rising from his own clothing.

Valimavi smiled and knelt down upon the stone floor in front of them. The young woman's lovely features lit up as she gazed upon the two hobbits, her beauty magnified by the golden radiance of the morning sun.

"My heroes!" she declared, and both Merry and Pippin drew themselves up to their full height--such as it was--at the compliment from the attractive girl. "You will not hear me complain," she said, smiling, "for the scent that clings to you bespeaks of the ordeal you endured in order to rescue me, through what I gather was the only chink in the armour of this vile fortress. Please accept my thanks and my gratitude!" The young woman's words left both hobbits smiling, and almost made them forget that they'd climbed up a latrine only a couple of hours before. "But I can understand that you would want to be clean and comfortable," she said, looking at them sympathetically. "Come. The Prince, for all his many faults, was accommodating enough to provide me with a washtub in my room. He is, certainly and thankfully, no longer in any position to object to your using it in my stead."

"And here is a bag with a change of your clothing," Evandor said, pulling a small leather pack from his back. "I brought it with us as I knew you would need it. You can join us downstairs in the kitchen for breakfast when you're done."

"Very well," Merry said, taking the bag from him. Then he looked up at the Ranger and sternly pointed a finger at him. "And when we do, _you _are going to provide us with an explanation."


	13. Revelations and Partings

**Into the East**

_A Lord of the Rings fanfic by Sisiutil_

* * *

**Epilogue: Revelations and Partings**

Once they had bathed--giving themselves a good, thorough scrubbing to get rid of the stench of the orc latrine--and changed into fresh clothes, Merry and Pippin went down the four flights of stone stairs to the tower's kitchen.

"That was very clever, what you did with the stone, by the way," Merry said to his friend as they carefully descended several flights of stone steps designed for creatures much larger than themselves.

"Why thank you," Pippin said with a proud grin. Then his eyes lit up as an idea occurred to him. "You know, I think you could make a sport out of that!"

"What, rolling round rocks along a floor?" Merry said doubtfully.

"Don't be so dismissive!" Pippin said. "When we get back to the Shire, I'm going to give it some serious thought."

"R-i-i-i-ight," Merry said dubiously. "Perhaps you could roll the rocks at little effigies of orcs, eh? And you could keep score of how many you knock over, like Legolas and Gimli do," he added with a derisive chuckle.

Pippin's mouth dropped open and his eyes widened with delight at the idea. "Brilliant!" he exclaimed, turning and pointing at Merry. "Brilliant!" he repeated, making Merry stare at him incredulously, then roll his eyes and shake his head at his friend's latest folly.

The two hobbits entered the kitchen and found their companions seated around a rough, rectangular wooden table. The aroma of fresh bread filled the kitchen; several of the oblong loaves sat upon the table in front of their friends, along with a cooked ham, fresh butter, preserves, hard-boiled eggs still in the shell, apples, plums, and a large dish of assorted nuts. At the sight of the food, the hobbits' stomachs growled and their mouths watered; it had been a long, hard night, and they had not eaten for several hours.

They scrambled onto a bench on one side of the table where two wooden blocks had been placed to provide the diminutive hobbits with seats of the proper height. They started to reach for the food, but Valimavi insisted upon serving them.

"It is the least I can do for my rescuers," the lovely young woman said as she sliced fresh bread for them. "Though I had guessed what you had to do to enter the fortress, my father has informed me of all the details of your long quest. I had heard that hobbits possess courage and hardiness that far exceeds their stature, but you both must be among the bravest of a very valiant race!"

Her words made the two hobbits beam, and their cheer was further heightened by the large plates of food she placed in front of them.

"You're a very perceptive young lady," Pippin remarked in a pleased and proud voice. He slapped butter and jam onto a large slice of bread and stuffed it into his mouth. "And very charming, too, I might add," he said once he'd swallowed most of it.

"That must come from the mother's side of the family," Merry said pointedly, with a sidelong glance at Evandor. But rather than seeing the stern expression on the Ranger's face that he had grown used to, Merry instead noticed that Evandor looked stricken. He turned to glance at Valimavi, who wore a similar, pained expression on her lovely face, and realized his mistake. "Oh, blast," he muttered quietly, quite ashamed of his tactlessness. "I am so sorry. That was thoughtless of me. Please forgive me."

Valimavi forced her mouth to form a slight smile and nodded, but said nothing more. She quickly finished serving the two hobbits and then sat down next to her father, who placed his strong arm about her slender shoulders and pressed the girl to him in order to comfort her--and, it was obvious, to comfort himself as well. The others ate in silence out of respect for the father's and daughter's grief.

Shortly thereafter, the ever-gregarious Gimli grew uncomfortable with the silence. "Well, I can't say much for this Prince Dredmor," he remarked, "but he had good taste in his choice of victuals. No disgusting orc-grub here!" The dwarf delightedly shoved a large chunk of ham into his mouth and chewed it enthusiastically. He was glad to see Valimavi's slender face smiling once again as she watched his display of culinary gusto.

"I am curious on one point," Legolas ventured cautiously, looking at Evandor and his daughter. "If you will forgive my saying so, Valimavi, though you are, as my friends have said, a lovely, intelligent, and charming young woman, that in itself does not strike me as enough to warrant the interest of an ambitious, would-be prince like this Dredmor."

"And he wanted to force you into marriage," Anoline said, her distaste at the idea obvious in her expression and her voice. "What could he hope to gain, especially since you so vehemently rejected him?"

Valimavi hesitated as a shadow of grief stole across her lovely features one again. Her father answered for her. "My daughter... and my late wife..." he said, his voice shaking for the briefest of moments, "...are direct descendants of Vidugavia, the ancient king of Rhovanion."

Again, the party grew silent, not just from respect and consideration this time, but out of surprise. They all glanced at Valimavi as though seeing her for the first time. Silently, each one of them acknowledged that the girl did indeed possess a bearing that was most noble--even regal, despite the fact that her family had not sat upon the throne of Rhovanion in the memory of any living thing save for ents, elves, and wizards.

"So by forcing Valimavi into marriage with him," Anoline said, her green eyes alight with sudden realization, "the Prince hoped to lay claim to the ancient throne?"

"Indeed," Evandor responded. "Though few if any of the kings of men would have recognized his claim, he would have used her to draw others to his cause, just as he used the false palantir."

Valimavi shook her head. "My family gave up all claim and rights to the crown long ago. But there are still those who claim loyalty to the line of Vidugavia." She glanced at her father. "Though I suspect they think more of their own benefit than of my family's when they speak of such nonsense." She smiled sadly. "Truth to tell, I was perfectly happy being the daughter of an honest farmer and horse-breeder." Evandor looked at her with great affection and patted her hand lovingly.

"Not as honest as you claim, if you'll excuse my saying so," Merry interjected, drawing the attention of everyone at the table. "All right, look, Evandor. I understand your urgency now. I also understand how your agitation and... your grief... made you brusque, even rude, and I can forgive it. But what possible reason could you have had to deceive us about your daughter? Valimavi," he said, addressing the pretty young woman they had rescued, "none of us knew you even existed until we burst into that room where the Prince was holding you prisoner!"

All eyes turned to Evandor, for this was indeed the one question that had been burning, unasked and unanswered, in all their minds since they had rescued Valimavi barely more than an hour earlier. The Ranger shifted uncomfortably beneath their scrutiny, even though as he looked into the eyes of his companions, he no longer saw any suspicion or anger there. In light of the tragic loss of his wife and son, they were willing to allow him a great deal. But this simple deception on his part perplexed them all. Even his daughter looked at him questioningly.

"You... were the companions of the Ring-Bearer," he said with a furtive glance at Merry and Pippin, his tone implying this simple fact held the answer, though it only puzzled them more.

"Yes," Merry, frowning, prompted him. "What of it?"

"Both of you were instrumental in saving Middle-Earth from the evil of Sauron," Evandor added reverently. "And you as well," he added, nodding towards Legolas and Gimli. "Thanks in great part to you, the one ring was destroyed; the Witch-King was slain; Rohan rode to the white city's aid; Prince Faramir was saved from certain death; Elessar returned to the throne of Gondor..."

It was the hobbits' turn to feel discomfited, their humility making this effusive and uncharacteristic praise uncomfortable to hear. Merry and Pippin shifted uncomfortably on their elevated seats.

"Well, that's... all true, in a way," Merry said abashedly. "But what does it have to do with not telling us the real purpose of our mission?"

"I was afraid," Evandor admitted, his voice barely more than a whisper, "that people capable of such great, important deeds would regard my quest as... little more than a personal errand." He sighed heavily, his pale blue eyes staring at the table top before him, unable to meet the gaze of his companions. "I scouted the castle. I found the one chink in its armour. I knew that I needed hobbits, and the very best and bravest of their kind, in order to rescue my daughter. I didn't... I _could_ not take the chance that you would say no."

The Ranger lifted his gaze from the table top to stare evenly at Merry. All at once, the fair-haired hobbit saw in the man's eyes the heavy burden of sorrow and desperation that he had borne since the deaths of his wife and son and the abduction of his only surviving family member, his daughter. But Merry also saw something new in Evandor's expression, something that the man's desperation and urgency had not allowed to be revealed prior to this moment: he saw the reverence with which he regarded he and Pippin, and Legolas and Gimli as well. It shocked the humble hobbit, and stunned him into silence.

Pippin, however, did not remain silent. "And by doing so, you betrayed how little you understand us," he said gently, admonishing the man in so kind a tone that he could not possibly take offense. "Perhaps what you say is true. Perhaps we were present at the great events of our day, and yes, we played a part, maybe a very significant one. But why do you think we did so?" he asked. "That day, when we stood before the black gate and thought we were charging into certain death, what do you think motivated us?" Pippin paused, and everyone hung upon his words. "Our friends, and our love for them. Frodo, the Ring-Bearer of whom you speak, was making his way through Mordor towards Mount Doom to destroy the ring at that very moment, and Sam with him. Yes, we wanted to save Middle-Earth and the Shire and everyone in it. But it was Frodo and Sam who were in our thoughts... and in our hearts." The hobbit paused, taking a drink from a mug of cool water. He glanced affectionately at Valimavi, then turned again to look at Evandor. "Had you told us of your family... of your daughter's plight... well. Nothing else could have ensured a greater guarantee of our enthusiastic participation."

The companions were quiet for some time once Pippin finished speaking. Merry watched Evandor closely and was surprised to see the dour Ranger's eyes shimmer with tears, which he blinked away. Then Merry looked at Valimavi, who sat so close beside her father, and whose hand she was holding. And for the first time, Merry realized that the desperate, anxious man they had known on the ride to Dol Guldur did not, in fact, represent Evandor's true personality; no, this man--a husband and father, a man of deep feelings, a humble and loving man deserving of his daughter's affection--this was the _real_ Evandor. If only the man had allowed his true self to shine through before this, Merry would never have regarded him with such suspicion. But his emotional turmoil had concealed his true nature.

"I apologize," Evandor said quietly, as if to confirm Merry's epiphany regarding him. "It seems that in _over-_estimating you, I _under-_estimated you. I beg your forgiveness."

"Oh, there's no need for forgiveness, lad!" Gimli exclaimed. The gregarious dwarf was quite eager to change the sombre mood permeating the room. "All's well that end's well, eh?" he said, looking about the table, a broad smile on his face that his heavy beard and moustaches could not conceal. "We vanquished the villain, rescued the damsel in distress, and saved Middle-Earth from the forces of evil. _Again_. I say we deserve a drink!" He rose from the table; his eyes narrowed and he looked about the kitchen like a fox searching for prey. "There has to be some ale around here somewhere..." he muttered.

"Ale?" Legolas asked him, his brows rising. "With breakfast?"

"Bah!" Gimli responded. "As far as I'm concerned, this is a late dinner. We had nothing last night but a few mouthfuls of rain-soaked bread and cheese and we haven't slept since. It's a miracle I had the strength for that fight. Ah!" he cried with delight when he spotted a barrel with a spigot off in a corner and made a bee-line for it.

"You know, he has a point," Pippin said, and shuffled off his seat to follow Gimli.

Merry remained at the table, shaking his head as he watched his two friends starting their celebrations very early indeed. But after such a long and dangerous night, he could hardly begrudge them. He turned to Evandor and Valimavi. "So what will you do now?" he asked them.

Evandor's heavy brows rose in surprise. "I must confess, I had not given it any thought. I've been so focused upon rescuing my dear Val," he said, giving his daughter's slender shoulders an affectionate squeeze. His own shoulders rose briefly in a shrug. "I suppose we could go back to what remains of our home, start to rebuild..."

"Oh father, no, I can't!" Valimavi said, her lovely face suddenly stricken with grief. "I can't go back there, not yet. Not where mother and little Elandor..." Unable to say any more, the young woman pressed her lips together and laid her head upon her father's broad shoulder. "I had a fight to distract me before, but now..."

"No, of course not," Evandor assured her, his voice quiet and shaking with emotion. "I could barely stand the sight of it myself. I just don't know where else to go, what else to do..."

"Perhaps," Anoline said suddenly, and paused as everyone turned to her and she grew worried, for a moment, that she sounded too enthused about the idea, but she pressed on. "Perhaps... you could return to Rohan. With me. Perhaps with a change of scenery, your wounded hearts could find the solace they need to heal. I know King Éomer would welcome you both most warmly to the golden hall at Edoras..."

As a sign of her youth, and her resiliency, Valimavi sat up and cast off her sorrow in response to Anoline's offer. Her dark brown eyes widened and blazed with enthusiasm. "We could come to Rohan? Really? Oh, I have always wanted to see it! I have heard of the broad, beautiful plains of the Riddermark..."

"In my opinion, no more beautiful place exists in all of Middle-Earth," Anoline said proudly. "I suppose I am biased, but I assert it nonetheless."

"Could I learn to ride?" Valimavi asked, her enthusiasm growing.

Anoline looked at her with bemused surprise. "Hasn't your father taught you how?"

"Oh, yes, just as he taught me how to wield a sword!" Valimavi said, casting an admiring glance at her father before returning her gaze to Anoline. "But to be taught to ride by the Rohirrim... that's almost like getting a chance to study with a wizard!"

Anoline laughed in delight at the girl's enthusiasm and high regard for her people. "I shall teach you myself, if you like," she offered.

"Oh, that would be wonderful!" Valimavi exclaimed, suddenly seeming much younger than her sixteen years. She turned to Evandor. "Oh, father, can we? Please?"

Evandor smiled at his daughter, the only family he had left, and knew he could refuse her nothing. "Of course, my beloved Val," he said laughing softly. "To Rohan we shall go."

His daughter gave a cry of delight and threw her arms around him, then kissed her father on the cheek. Evandor embraced the girl in return, then looked over her shoulder at Anoline, to whom he mouthed the words, "Thank you". In response, the red-headed horsewoman nodded, glad that by bowing her head she hid the tears that had formed in her eyes.

Gimli had returned from the barrel of ale with a mug filled to the brim, and had watched this scene unfold with interest, but said nothing. The companions returned to their meal and their idle chatter, all of them glad to partake of something so normal as breakfast after such a long and dangerous night. They soon felt the urge to get away, however, as none of them wanted to linger in a place such as Dol Guldur any longer than they had to.

As they made their preparations to leave, Gimli saw that no one else was going to say anything, and realized that as the eldest of their party, the duty fell to him. Not for the first time, he wished that Gandalf were still around. Imparting words of wisdom was the wizard's stock-in-trade; though proud of his people, their many skills, and his own prowess in battle, Gimli was aware of his own strengths and also his limitations, and he hardly felt up to the task. But for the sake of his new friends, he knew he had to make an effort. Indeed, he had even restrained himself to only half the mug of ale, so as to keep his head clear for this one, very uncomfortable duty he had to perform.

"A word, lass, if you please," he said to Anoline, and drew the lovely young warrior away from the rest of their group for a moment. As Anoline watched him expectantly, Gimli shifted his weight and carefully weighed his words for the umpteenth time. "You'll forgive me for being so bold, lass, but... I could not help but notice... where your heart is leading you." Anoline stared at him innocently, so Gimli cast a meaningful glance at Evandor. Anoline followed his gaze, and quickly turned away. The merest hint of a blush appeared on the young woman's cheeks, and it only confirmed what Gimli had surmised, and what he had to say. "He needs... _time_, lass," he said gently. "Be patient with him. For both your sakes."

Anoline stared at Gimli in silence. Then, gradually, her lips curled into an appreciative smile. "I shall," she promised quietly. "Thank you, Master Dwarf," she added, and bent down to bestow a kiss upon Gimli's bristly brow. The Dwarf grunted in agitation, rocked from side to side on his feet, then turned and walked away from the comely young woman, for his cheeks had turned crimson, and he knew his formidable beard would not hide the fact.

* * *

It took the seven companions the better part of the day to travel back to the stable where they had left their horses, time they passed exchanging stories and songs. They slept in the stable again that night, just as they had only a couple of nights before. Their sleep was long and deep and well-deserved, for they'd barely slept at all in two days and had journeyed long and fought ferociously in that time. 

It was with heavy hearts the next day that they separated into two groups to go their separate ways. Legolas and Gimli had offered to travel with Merry and Pippin back over the Misty Mountains, even as far as Bree, and the two hobbits were delighted at the prospect of their old friends' companionship, and comforted by the protection they would offer, for far too many orcs still roamed the land. Evandor, Valimavi, and Anoline, of course, intended to make their way to Rohan. Indeed, the Éowiim reunited with them that morning, informing their leader and her companions of the many escaping orcs and evil men they had slain, and of the regrettable few who had escaped. With the Éowiim riding with them, though, the Ranger and his daughter would be well and properly escorted and protected on their journey to the lands of the horse masters.

Just before they parted, Valimavi drew aside the two hobbits to thank them yet again.

"I wish I could be in two places at once," she told them, kneeling upon the grass before them. "For though I am excited to be visiting the Riddermark, I would also love to see this Shire of which you speak so highly."

"You shall have to visit it one day," Pippin said enthusiastically.

"Rohan has its charms, to be sure," Merry added, "but there's nowhere else in Middle-Earth like the Shire." As he spoke the words, a pang of home-sickness struck him, and he suddenly longed to be on his way. He remembered Estella, whom he had been courting, and he greatly desired to see her pretty, smiling face once again.

"Indeed, it must be a great land, if it produces stout-hearted heroes such as you!" the lovely young girl exclaimed. She clasped Pippin's hands, leaned forward, and kissed him lightly on the lips, leaving the curly-haired hobbit smiling and speechless. Then she turned and repeated the action with Merry, who was delighted with the gesture, though perhaps less awestruck than his companion. Valimavi then rose to her feet and ran back to her father, her new friend Anoline, and the waiting Éowiim. She turned once as she ran and waved back at the hobbits.

For some time after they had parted from their new friends, Pippin remained rapturously silent. A pleased grin was on his face as though it had become a permanent fixture. Every now and then he drew a deep breath and exhaled a sad yet strangely contented sigh. Merry turned in the saddle to look at his old friend and chuckled.

"What's so funny?" Pippin asked.

"You," Merry replied. "You're quite smitten."

"Me? What, with that... that... _gigantic _girl?" Pippin responded. "Please. Oh, she's pretty," he said, forcing himself to make it sound grudgingly, "...for one of her kind, I suppose."

"Mm-hmm," Merry replied knowingly.

A moment later, Pippin said, "You know, maybe there's something to this whole... courtship and marriage thing you've become so stuck on lately." Merry couldn't help himself; he turned suddenly and stared at his friend in shocked amazement. Pippin ignored his reaction. "Estella wouldn't happen to have... you know... a _friend_, would she?"

THE END

* * *

** Afterword**

I wish to take this opportunity to thank all of you who have read this story and especially those who offered feedback as I posted each chapter. Your interest and enthusiasm inspired me to keep going, and reminded me of what a wonderful and precious thing this community is. Thank you once again.

I have some ideas for a sequel--just bare bones at this point, so it will likely take quite some time to develop into anything I would consider suitable for publication here. So please be patient; for if you can but wait, I assure you, the "Fellowship of the Palantir" will one day ride again...


End file.
